Diary of Catherine Morland
by Laurel Amsterdam
Summary: A deeper look into events surrounding Northanger Abbey. A first person account, delving further than Ms. Austen dared to go. There is more to Catherine than meets the eye.
1. 28 January 1798

I awoke late at night to Barta barking under my window. Moonlight filtered through the window hangings, which lit my room enough for me to find my dressing gown. Barta saw me through windows, and the piercing note atop her plea forced me to shake off the slowness of sleep. In the distance, our stable master Henley rode toward her on his own horse.

"Barta!" he said.

I knew the scolding that was likely to follow, so I slipped out the windows onto the slim balcony beyond. Barta didn't bother me without reason, and I had a hunch what it might be.

Henley saw me. "I'm terribly sorry Barta woke you, Cathy. I had the matter well in hand." He coughed into his sleeve.

"You very well should have come, Henley. You know my instructions. I don't want you spending your nights chasing Medusa." The wind blew through my gown, and I shivered.

"I'll only be a minute to change," I said, then hurried in and shut the door before Henley could form a response.

I threw open my hope chest, then lifted the false shelf within. A set of boys clothing lay there, where I placed them last.

Dressed, I stuffed my braid under a cap, and then added a warm coat to my disguise. I spared only a moment for the looking glass. No matter how I dressed, close up I still looked like me. Thank heaven for darkness, the true concealer.

I slipped onto the balcony and climbed over the rails. I crouched low, then held the balusters as I inched myself closer to the ground.

"Fffmph." The breath left me as I fell onto the snow-packed ground.

"What a pity the trellis fell down last month," Henley said. "Your father told me the wind must have been something fierce."

"Yes," I said, still flattened. "A great pity."

Henley helped me to my feet, then held out Barta's leash. I took it, then turned toward where I knew Medusa had gone.

"Cathy—"

"Not to worry Henley. I'll take it from here. Get some rest."

Henley pursed his lips, then let his shoulders slump as he exhaled. "I don't like for you to go out alone, deary."

"I know it."

"Good. Off you go then, and don't get yourself caught."

Barta led me for over an hour before we caught up with Medusa. I was fit to freezing. She stood by the stream, looking across into the fog. In the moonlight, she looked every bit as possessed as the moment I first saw her.

Mamma and I had been on a visit to Mrs. Durston, some three years past. We were walking out to our carriage when Medusa bolted into view, frightening our carriage horses so much that our driver was nearly thrown from his seat.

I'd never seen a horse so black, so spirited, and so angry. When I saw her charging toward us, my mother screaming, and I holding her up, the world shrunk to just Medusa and I.

Next came a moment I have never been able to describe to anyone. It was as though I was looking at myself—the terror I saw in her eyes, a reflection of captivity and despair. I shoved my mother out of the way, and reached for the horse as she got near enough to trample me. Medusa ducked into my arms and took me up onto her back, and we rode for a mile or two before she would turn back. I would later practice that very maneuver many times, but that first time was all Medusa's doing. My mother was in hysterics, and my father forced me to take the horse back to the Durstons. I did so, three times at least over the next two days before my father agreed to allow me to keep her. When I lay down to find sleep, I remember the rhythm of our ride, and the lingering impression of a kind of song. I still feel that song each time I am with her.

The Durston's sold him to us for very little. Medusa became my horse. She is quite a beast, and is unlike the typical ladies mare one reads about in novels. It was the first time my brothers envied me for anything.

Medusa had been acting up ever since my preparations for departure began.

I shivered with cold, and found myself staring into the fog alongside Medusa. I stroked her curling mane, feeling her warmth and strength.

I led Medusa away from the stream toward a modest stone. Not as big as I'd like, but it would do. I stepped up and swung my leg over her back, scrambling up the rest of the way as best I could. I leaned forward and rested on her neck.

"I am not abandoning you, my dear," I whispered into her ear. "Only a few weeks will part us, and I will send for you if I can. Henley will take excellent care of you."

We rode back to Fullerton, Barta running alongside.

It was going to be a very long six weeks.


	2. 29 January 1798

I wished my sister Sarah could come with us. She was only one year my junior, and just as mature as I was. I asked Mama if Sarah could come too, but she said it was impossible.

"The Allen's would have invited her too if they wanted her to accompany them, Catherine," Mama said.

"Perhaps they did not realize she is sixteen now? She has as much right to go into society as I have."

Mama sighed. "Oh, Catherine. That is not the only thing to be taken into account. We must be grateful for their generosity and leave it at that. It would be the height of impropriety to ask to bring Sarah."

"Yes," I said reluctantly. "I suppose you are right. But if I am able, I will mention it in my next conversation to Mrs. Allen. I shall seek her out after tomorrow's service." I smiled at the thought of my excellent plan. "I shall be very discrete."

At that, Mama laughed aloud. "Catherine, you had better not say anything at all. Your version of discretion is rather like a bed collapsing. I think you must resign yourself to the fact that Sarah will stay at home, and you will go to Bath. I daresay Mrs. Allen will invite her another year."

And so commenced my days as companion to Mrs. Allen.

The drive to Bath, though not a terribly long one, was broken into two days. I spent most of the drive looking out the window, though Allen's snoring was enough to distract me even from that.

I took up Mr. Allen's paper that he had left beside me on the seat. As usual, I turned first to the racing section of the paper—which sometimes held only a few lines. I skimmed down the columns, looking for any item of interest.

I gasped, the name Hambletonian catching my eye. I re-read the single ling again.

The noteable HAMBLETONIAN of county DURHAM has been entered for the upcoming Bath Stakes in county SOMERSET.

I stared at those words. Those Stakes were going to be held in a matter of weeks—during my stay in Bath. Hambletonian's career had been my chief interest for the last three years, ever since I saw him race at the Stonehenge Stakes, the same year Medusa came into my life.

I was only fourteen that year. My closest friend, Mariah, and her father took us to Salisbury for a day of shopping. We quickly diverted our interest when Mr. Lowforth discovered the Stonehenge Stakes were being held nearby, and we set off to join the crowds.

My interest in racing was not born that day, but was born was my devotion to Hambletonian. I could not take my eyes off of him. It felt a bit like what I'd felt with Medusa, but this time it was more of a deep admiration for his beauty and grace.

It was both the best and worst day of my life. The worst was waiting for me at home.

"I have something for you, dear," said Mrs. Allen, startling me from my memories. She had awakened without my notice, and I offered a smile.

"Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, Mrs. Allen?"

She waived her hand around. "Oh no, but do let me give you this."

She handed me a book from her reticule. The cover was brown leather, with an embossed daisy border. I opened it.

"These pages are all blank," I said.

Mrs. Allen smiled. "Exactly so. I expected you'll have many things to record during the weeks ahead of us. It is a diary, you see. Have you never had one before?"

I shook my head. The cost of paper was far too dear for such things. I was allowed paper for correspondence only. "No. I…Mrs. Allen, this is so thoughtful and generous. But are you quite certain?"

"Oh yes. Why, when adventure does not find a lady at home, she must go in search of it. And so you shall."

Perhaps I would then.


	3. 31 January 1798

I couldn't have managed without a writing desk. There would be letters to write home and correspondence for Mrs. Allen, perhaps. And I was anxious to write in my new diary.

My private room in Great Pulteney Street was as beautiful as it was convenient—it was such a delight to have my own desk and paper things. I've been so anxious to go out, but Mrs. Allen forbade it. I was able to escape for a solitary stroll this morning, but it soon started to rain and I dashed back to get an umbrella. Mrs. Allen nearly fell out of her chair when I asked to borrow one.

"An umbrella? I'm not sure I quite understand your meaning. Is the roof leaking? Oh dear, Mr. Allen, I knew these lodgings would not be the thing for us. I would have taken some in Milsom street, but you know, there were none to be had. And to think—we've already unpacked all out things! What a dreadful mess."

I waited patiently for her to finish. I had promised mama, sincerely, that I would be patient and obedient to the Allens. I meant to keep my word, though it would be difficult. Oh, so very difficult.

"Do not worry yourself on that account," I said, hastening to interrupt, "the roof does appear to be quite sound." Mrs. Allen sighed in relief, and I continued. "But I must say the umbrella was to protect my person from the wet, as I desire to continue my walk."

Her face, in relief, is quite beautiful. She has a dove complexion, and though her choice of hats may be somewhat irregular, I have never thought it detracted from her face. After this confession of mine, the skin around her mouth turned quite white, her cheeks red, and her eyes grew sharp as a knife. With looks like that, tis no wonder Mr. Allen often speaks to her while looking at his newspaper.

Were it not for the feathered hat she wore, she would have been a fearsome creature, but I did sometimes, in former visits, lose track of the conversation by imagining her hat to be a bird struggling to break free.

"Catherine, have you gone out this morning?" She raised her hand to her brow. "Please tell me you have not!"

"Yes I have, Mrs. Allen. Was that wrong?" I knew already from her tone that I had made a grave error in judgment, but pretending innocence has always been my most reliable defense. "I am used to a solitary walk in the morning."

Mrs. Allen's bosom heaved, as she seemed to struggle for breath. "Oh, oh dear. I'm afraid I must blame myself. But no matter—I promised your dear parents that I would be a proper chaperon for you, and here I have failed already!"

She took my hand. "My dear, we have not yet amended our dress. I would not wish for your triumph here to be lessened by any ill-timed judgments on your appearance."

"What can be the matter with my dress?" I asked, in sincere puzzlement. I'd spent hours upon hours unpicking seams, and I thought I'd done a rather nice job. I had accidentally poked a hole in one of my dresses, but the white I wore currently was perfection itself.

Mrs. Allen said, "Ah, nothing my dear, it is a lovely dress—a lovely country dress, that is, there is no concealing it. We want to be seen as little as possible until our dress has been made over. We must look a clan of country bumpkins to all those who witnessed our arrival last night."

Mr. Allen cleared his throat. A pointed look was cast in Mrs. Allen's direction, and she continued, "And Mr. Allen wishes me to remind you, dear, you must take care for the safety of your person. Fullerton is but a small parish with kind neighbors and everybody knows everybody. But Bath, my dear, Bath—it is quite the opposite! Cities are where the brigands live you know. We must be always on our guard. Until you are more familiar with Bath and what streets are safe, you should forgo your walks."

I retreated to my room, downcast. Forgo my walks? What is there to captivate inside these rented rooms? I cast myself upon the bed, and hugged the pillow there as I would have my own. As I lay contemplating the dullness of the days ahead, there was a tap at my door.

I sat up, smoothing my dress. "Come in."

Mr. Allen popped his head through the door opening. I had never been much to Mr. Allen, but I could sense a kindred spirit in him at this moment, as though he had a capital secret to share with me.

"This room is larger than my own," he said, stepping fully into the room.

"Is it?" I asked, as I slid down from the high perch bed. "I must admit I did not choose it for its size. I hope you do not prefer it to your own."

"No indeed, I prefer a cozy room," he said. I followed his gaze as it turned toward the window. He stepped over and looked out. "Ah, now I see why you chose this room."

I approached the window. It was still quite early and many were returning from their morning rides in the hills beyond Sydney Gardens, just east of our lodgings. I saw the gardens upon our arrival yesterday and determined to visit this morning.

"You give me more credit than is my due, Mr. Allen. I was not aware of these particular views, only that the decor of the room was especially cheering."

"But the horses, what a fine view," he said. "I do believe Pulteney street is the main road leading toward the Avon bridge. All those who wish to cross the river will pass under this window. Why, I do believe I am envious now. This could amuse me for hours on end."

"Do you care most to watch the horses or the people?" I asked.

"The horses, naturally."

"Yes," I said. "I quite agree."

"Hmph."

A companionable silence fell upon us.

As we fell to watching, a thought occurred to me. "Is there not a small office next to this room with the same view? I do not know that Mrs. Allen has any plans for it."

"An excellent idea. Indeed, I came up to ask if you might—"

In the street below, still a ways eastward, I could just make out the figure of a mahogany horse, one that was the very image of—but no, it couldn't be. It was a foggy morning, and the glass a further impediment—I squinted, and put my nose nearly to touching.

That stride. The looks of which captivated me as much in this moment as it did three years ago. I had not seen it in the years between. Not since the day of the Stonehenge Stakes.

And it was on the run, blinded by what I could only guess was a ladies shawl over his eyes, caught on the harness.

I cut Mr. Allen off mid-sentence. "I must go down Mr. Allen—'tis Hambletonian, I declare!"

Without another thought or ear for what Mr. Allen was saying in reply, I launched through the door and veritably flew down the steps of the apartment. I nearly collided with Mrs. Allen at the bottom of the stairs.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Allen," I managed as I ran past her and out the door.

The whir of thoughts I could not keep up with. Hambletonian on Pulteney street? What was he doing here? He was blinded, frightened, dangerous.

From my upstairs window, I had seen several carriages exiting the city, forming a bottleneck with the equestrians attempting to reenter. Hambletonian was running into trouble certainly, as the crowd of riders were clustered ahead. I had seen Medusa in this state too many times to count.

I knew I was about to do something very foolish, but I could not stop myself.

I thanked heaven he wore a breast collar and that I wore sturdy walking shoes. The break in traffic allowed me a clear path as I took steps two at a time down the front steps and then leapt into the street. Hambletonian was a hand taller than Medusa, and I prayed this would end well. Indeed, Medusa and I had practiced this move a hundred times over the past year. I knew from experience that if I did not catch her when she entered into one of her fits, I would spend half the night looking for her, only to try and catch her again when she was found. If Papa or Mama had an inkling of any of it, Medusa would have been sold long ago.

It was only a few more steps before I was at his side. As I made those last steps, I realized I was wearing full skirts—and not the trousers I was accustomed to. It was too late for rational thought however, but I could not have claimed sanity at any point since sighting Hambletonian.

I put it out of my mind. The greatest mistake I had made in the past was showing fear, even trembling, when trying to lure Medusa from the dark part of her mind. At other times, she will respond to my fear with sympathy and support, but not when she herself is afraid. A steady hand can be feigned with practice, a blank mind with intense focus, but horses will sense your fear. I have always preferred to do mental exercises in such moments. It requires less energy and allows me to put all my focus into the main task.

During those last few steps, I turned inward.

Then I leapt.

I braced myself and gripped the breast collar with one hand and the saddle with the other, as high up as I could manage. In that moment, I was weightless.

I felt a jolt, and my legs flew out from under me, my dress trailing in the wind.

I considered the probability of one or both of the Allens witnessing my acrobatics. Mrs. Allen would think it barbaric, no doubt, but the chances of her watching were much lower than Mr. Allen. I do not think she would have given me a second thought, after passing her at the bottom of the stairs, and she would have continued up the steps to smooth her gown or replace a lock of hair that had come loose. And if Mr. Allen was watching, what would become of me then? I did not know him well enough to anticipate the answer. I must assign a probability of 20% then to Mrs. Allen, and 80% to Mr. Allen. That both were watching was a simple mathematical product of the two probabilities, rather, 0.2 multiplied by 0.8. Thus it is only a 16% chance that both watched me now. But the probability that either one watched was much, much higher. The formula more complicated, what was it? I strained to recall. 0.2 plus 0.8 minus…something? Ah. Minus the product. That is, 1 minus 0.16. An 84% chance that I will be spotted. Alas.

The mind numbing mathematics were not quite enough to focus my mind, and the image of my broken, trampled body entered my mind unwarranted.

I am stronger than this.

I threw my boot over the croup of the horse, then tried to adjust my weight before I was thrown off. I looked ahead, startled by just how close we were to the crowd. In the seconds that had passed since my leap, the crowd had finally been alerted to the danger approaching. But I could not ascertain any orderly clearing of the road. If anything, the throng of people became even more dense as the carriage occupants attempted to escape on foot.

Finally balanced on the hind quarters of the horse, I climbed into the saddle, being thrown up and down with every gallop, though my generous skirt more an annoyance than a hindrance. Unable to reach the stirrups, I hugged the horse with my thighs for better control of my seat. I scrambled for the reigns, then holding them with both hands, I threw my body back and pulled upward, then tried to straighten up again. The saddle was ill fitting for me and I was not confident in my seat. I repeated the sequence two or three more times, knowing deep down I was not seated well enough to bring him under control, and it was only by the sheerest luck he did not throw me.

I leaned forward and gripped the shawl to remove it, but the fringe was tangled in the bit and I could not pull it away with gentle tension, nor could I push it as due to a headwind. I left it alone, hoping that he would rely on my direction rather than risk the violent yank on his bit.

I was already growing tired. Though I had learned to ride without stirrups, I was mostly walking and trotting, not in a full gallop. In the hunt, one relies more on stirrups than at any other time.

His speed diminished only by a hair, I gave up and focused my strength on steering him away from the rapidly approaching crowd. I increased pressure into the turn, letting my instincts take over and I tried not to hold my breath.

In a moment, the danger was past. We turned into a cross street, then another, and finally out onto the countryside—green and lush, an oasis awaiting us. When we were in the open, I took in a deep breath, so deep I must have failed to breathe after all.

If I were thrown here, nobody but myself would be hurt. I made a split second decision and yanked hard on the shawl. It came free, and Ham made a valiant attempt to shake me loose, but the only result was him loosing more speed.

I marveled that Ham had tolerated my jarring mount, and I did not sense any reall aggression in him toward me. I stroked his mane, his neck and shoulders, but the soothing made no effect. I closed my eyes, enjoying the breeze, the heat on my face, the billow of my skirt behind me. This was no habit I wore, heavy wide skirts allowing for modesty on a side saddle—no. I was born to ride like this.

It was the most exhilarating moment of my life, leaping like that. The wind in my hair made me feel as though I was a queen of a powerful empire, ready to take on anything. For surely, the back of a racehorse is unlike any place I have ever known.

I heard a voice call out behind me. The words were inaudible, but I turned and saw someone in pursuit. A man, specifically. And he was doing his best to catch up.

Something—or someone—caused Ham to grow agitated enough to nearly vault into a crowd of people at full gallop. The man behind it all—could it be him pursuing us?

A shiver coursed through me, and I angled forward, compensating for balance, huddling closer to Ham's soothing warmth.

And I waited for the inevitable.

Then, he was there. The man, no—a gentleman—in a morning coat and trousers, the sun reflecting off his blond hair.

I blinked and sat up, taking in the words he spoke.

"Are you well?" said the man. "Will he not slow down?"

"No," I called out, though he was barely five feet away. "But he is growing tired."

"And you, miss? Are you well? I saw what you did. I've never seen the like," he said.

"I am well at the moment. Do you know any tricks to stop a frightened horse?"

"Nothing that goes beyond what I'm certain you have already tried. That shawl was the devils trick. I wager it was stuck in the bit?"

I nodded, then realized he was looking straight ahead. "Yes. I risked yanking it out after we were clear of everyone."

He looked pained. "It is noble of you to risk your life for people you've never met."

"My horse at home gets like this a lot. It is not the first time I have climbed onto a galloping horse."

"I'm not sure if that should make me feel better."

I laughed, drawing his own smile. I immediately forgot my exhaustion.

Indeed, there were no young gentlemen in Fullerton, and though the older gentlemen I had met were indeed dignified and well dressed, I had never met one below forty years of age. When he smiled at me, my girlish heart skipped a beat. Or it could have been Ham's unexpected leap over a rock. How was a lady to know the difference?

"Your feet don't reach the stirrups," he said.

"And yours overreach."

"Well this isn't my horse, obviously."

"Want to trade?" I asked with a slant in my voice.

He laughed. "If only. I'm not as nimble as you. Still, I want to get closer. See if he recognizes me."

"Be my guest." My strength was nearly gone.

He drew the two horses abreast, matching Ham's speed perfectly. Then he touched Ham's neck and said, "It's Harry, old boy. I'm here."

Sir Harry Vane-Tempest, as I knew him now to be, continued to stroke and soothe, separating when the land was not easy, then coming together again.

"Tony, how could you leave me behind? You must know how I care…how I would have helped you if you'd let me. Stay with me Tony. Stay with me. The dawn is close."

I watched from my seat, feeling the tension gradually ease from the racehorse's frame. Never had I seen another person interact with their horse in such a way. Except for myself.

"You have a way with horses," I said, relaxing in turn as the horse slowed to a trot, then to a walk.

I exhaled and leaned forward, laying on the horses neck. I was damp with sweat, but grateful to have succeeded.

He looked up at the sky, as though contemplating its height. "I have always loved horses, but I didn't feel as close to one until I met Tony here. He seemed to understand me, and I understood him."

"I know that feeling."

"And where is your other half?" he said with a knowing smile.

"At home." I let out a breath. "Mama forbade me from asking Mr. Allen to bring her."

"Pray, what is your name? I see no one to ask for an introduction except poor Tony, and he does not know your name either."

I colored, embarrassed to have to confess. "No he does not. But I am not certain I wish to have any witnesses to my little adventure. Though there is a small enough chance of that already."

"You would not be coy and tease me so. I should like to know your name, and that is all. I am not going to sell your identity to the scandal sheets."

"I would withhold it, if it were not quite indecorous of me to do so when I am already in possession of yours."

He scoffed. "You could not possibly know me. I have not shown my face around town at all since my arrival, and I most certainly do not socialize with the ladies."

"That would not signify; I arrived in Bath only yesterday afternoon. And I have a hard time believing society is not aware of the arrival of a baronet."

"Well I am at a loss, I'm afraid. You are cleverer than I."

I laughed, basking in the moment. "Can you not guess? Well, I shall be kind and tell you. Indeed I did not recognize you; I recognized your horse. I knew Hambletonian on sight, or Tony, as you call him. Though I like to think of him as Ham. I saw him win at Stonehenge three years ago, and I've been following his career closely ever since. You are Sir Harry Vane-Tempest, and you acquired Ham two years ago. I would not make off with just any horse you know."

Silence answered me then. Sir Harry appeared completely dumbfounded by what I had said. Each side glance I threw his way showed he wore the same thunderstruck expression.

"I think I have confounded you, Sir Harry. Have you nothing to say?"

He remained frozen for another few seconds, then slowly turned his head. He cleared his throat, swallowed, and then looked me straight in the eye, his face serious.

"Ham?"

I focused my eyes into his, confused at first by his monosyllabic response.

Then he burst out laughing. Soon, I could hear my own peals of laughter ringing out along side his. It kept on and on—I laughed so hard I thought I might fall off the horse if we didn't stop, so tried very hard to focus on the tangle in Ham's hair. I was near to stopping when I made the mistake of looking over at him again, only to see his own comical expression. Then I couldn't help but laugh that he was still laughing, and then he laughed that I laughed. It finally ended more due to sheer exhaustion, and I leaned forward to rest on Ham's neck.

"What's wrong with Ham as a nickname? It is just as respectable as Tony, I daresay." I said, struggling for breath.

"I must have your name. Now that you are on a first name basis with my horse, you are honor bound to tell me."

I nodded, finding my breath again. "I am Miss Morland, of Wiltshire."

We returned shortly after that to Pulteney street. I was glad not to return alone, as it was a kind of protection. From a distance, I saw Mr. Allen in front of our lodgings, looking up and down the street. Looking for me, no doubt.

And then he saw us.

There were only two times I had seen Mr. Allen angry. The first was when I was eight years old and James accidentally shot Mr. Allen's old Pointer.

The second instance was staring me in the face.

My belly churned as anxiety spread to every limb. Nine years had passed, but I had not forgotten it. James, would never forget either—Mr. Allen had made sure of that.

He was a quiet, agreeable man whenever I saw him after that, never alluding to that day. I had grown quite comfortable in his presence. Almost.

We stopped in front of the steps. Mr. Allen was silent, but his breath was heavy and thick. He held himself still. On the hand grasping the railing, his knuckles were white.

I glanced at Sir Harry, a silent entreaty, but his eyes were focused on Mr. Allen.

Another few moments passed as Mr. Allen's appeared to struggle for countenance.

The reins shook as a tremor passed through my hands. I suppressed it, determined not to show weakness.

Sir Harry cleared his throat. "Forgive me, Sir, but are you Mr. Edward Allen of Fullerton, Wiltshire?"

The spell of silence broken by these few words had an instant effect. The tension I felt emanating from Mr. Allen seemed to dissipate into the morning air. After minutes of staring into nothing, he finally focused on my companion. Then a gleam of surprise entered his eyes.

"Sir Henry Vane?" He squinted and shook his head. "No, but you look like him. Are you his boy?"

"I am. Though I took on Tempest as part of my inheritance."

"Yes, yes." Mr. Allen drew one finger down the side of his cheek. "I remember reading that in one of Vane's letters. What a strange chance, brings us together this morning."

Sir Harry looked at me. The trepidation I felt moments earlier was gone—replaced with astonishment that he and Mr. Allen seemed to be acquainted. There were no end of surprises this morning.

Buoyed by his presence, I said, "Shall we go round to the stables? I should like to get down."

A fleeting dark look from Mr. Allen answered, but held at bay as he followed us there.

Sir Harry climbed down from his horse, and led Ham and me toward the mounting block.

"I was sorry to hear about your father's last illness," Mr. Allen said. "He was a good friend to me for many years."

Sir Harry continued in the examination he had begun on Ham. "Thank you. He spoke of you often. What a pity you did not live nearer to one another. When Miss Morland mentioned you earlier, I wondered if you were the same Allen but told myself you could not be."

As they continued conversing with one another, I attempted to slowly lift my leg over the horse, but wobbled enough that it drew notice from both men. Sir Harry, standing not a foot away, offered me his hand. I extended my arm and placed my bare hand into his gloved one—grateful that at least one of us had properly dressed for going out. With his assistance I brought my leg over and slid down from the horse. I winced as my feet hit the step, leg muscles in agony. His face registered my discomfort, but before he spoke I shook my head, and dropped down to sit on the block.

"Are you well, Miss Morland? You must be quite sore. May I help you inside?"

Indeed I did not wish to go inside and face Mr. Allen alone. "No th—"

"—Thank you, Harry," Mr. Allen said, speaking over me.

Mr. Allen turned, and looked at me. It was a knowing look, that laid all my secrets bare. I would have shrunk into the step if there had been room. He said only, "Do not go far."

I fled inside, before I could refuse Sir Harry once more.

I lay on my bed, thinking furiously.

I closed my eyes tight, wishing I hadn't looked out the window that morning, that I hadn't seen Hambletonian . Mrs. Allen was still in her room, and grateful as I was for that small reprieve, I almost wished she had been standing beside Mr. Allen when I returned with Sir Harry. She would have insisted on having a say in what I was beginning to think of as, the reckoning. As it stood, Mr. Allen alone would have full control over the outcome. He could tell Mrs. Allen whatever he wanted, and without the facts, she would demure to him. And Mr. Allen is the last man I wanted in control of my fate.

What I had done—I was still in shock that I had attempted it in public. I had carefully guarded my secret from almost everyone, never attempting to catch Medusa when anyone other than Henley was near. Never flaunting, never bragging, the reckless talent had become habitual.

I buried my face into the pillow.

This hiding—not even hiding at that—this wallowing, accomplished nothing. Mr. Allen would find me whenever he willed it. I could lay here and fret, replaying the scene this morning, replaying the image of James—of myself hiding in the shadows.

I sat up, sure about one thing. If Mr. Allen was going to seek me out, I would make sure I was not alone. With that last thought, I went in search of Mrs. Allen.


	4. 31 January 1798 PART 2

I did not see Mr. Allen again until Mrs. Allen and I returned from shopping. Questions had been running through my mind all afternoon—consumed with worry over what had startled Ham so far to push him into a deadly sprint, and whether I would see him again.

It had been a surprisingly delightful afternoon. I had chosen a sprigged muslin dress—against Mrs. Allen's wishes I might add—and I was looking forward to wearing it at the next ball. I liked it all the more for Mrs. Allen's objecting, since her amusing consternation would be repeated each time I wore it. Her ornate finery does not suite me, but she fails to appreciate that I am grown now and am allowed to have my own opinion.

When Mr. Allen came down for dinner, I was ready. I moved a trifle closer to Mrs. Allen, but it proved unnecessary, as he did not approach us, but chose a seat across the sitting room.

"I am expecting a guest at dinner this evening," he said. He appeared relaxed, even cheerful in his tone.

I sat up in my chair. Could it be?

"Oh?" Mrs. Allen said, her dove eyes focusing on him with interest.

"The son of old Sir Henry Vane—you remember him dear, passed away last winter. Vane-Tempest is his name now."

"Oh yes," she said, nodding. "What brings his son to Bath? I thought they lived in the North."

"He owns a racehorse now. A famous one, I take it." His eyes flitted over to mine, then back to Mrs. Allen. Was he about to tell her what happened? I dared not utter a single word, lest my agitation become discernible.

"What a fine thing." Then her eyebrows furrowed together. "I hope you told him Catherine and I would be present. I do hate surprises at dinner. My digestion, you know, very delicate."

"Of course. He is looking forward to meeting you." He leaned forward, transferring his focus to me. "Both of you, that is."

Mrs. Allen launched into a speech then of what would be acceptable dinner topics for us to discuss with a guest present, but I heard little of what followed. I gazed at Mr. Allen, taking in his implication.

He would not tell Mrs. Allen, then. Something like relief passed through me. Had he wished for me to be sent home as a result of my misstep, telling his wife would have been the simplest method to achieve that end. I had no illusions that any lady of breeding would tolerate the wild behavior I had shown today. It was beginning to understand it was not only my reputation I had put at risk, but that of the Allen's as well.

Mr. Allen's anger was not without foundation. There were people who saw my face—should they recognize me later on—.

My thoughts broke off when the door opened and Felton announced Sir Harry Vane-Tempest. Mr. and Mrs. Allen stood and immediately went over to greet him.

"So delightful to see you—how tall you've grown! Mr. Allen, when did we last see little Harry? I fear it must be ages. You look very well, no doubt you've been enjoying the fresh air here. We only arrived yesterday ourselves, are your mother or sisters here in town?"

I stood, watching from a distance as Mrs. Allen interrogated him. A pair of blue eyes settled on mine. He looked the same as that morning, but larger somehow in the confines of the sitting room.

"…you must meet Miss Morland. Her family are our closest neighbors in Fullerton." Mrs. Allen gestured to me to join them.

Sir Harry bowed, a lock of chestnut hair falling forward on his temple. He held out his hand.

I took it, then said, "A pleasure, Sir. I hardly knew your name until today, and have now heard you spoken of quite often."

"And you, Miss Morland. I have only heard your name spoken…once, but I am all curiosity now. I hope you may indulge me at dinner."

I blushed at his forwardness. "Certainly. I should look forward to any questions you have for me.

Felton announced dinner, and Sir Harry escorted me into the dining room. We were seated across from one another at the dining table, Mr. and Mrs. Allen were at the either end.

"Pray, I did not hear earlier," said Mrs. Allen, "will your sisters and mother be joining you in Bath later on? They must come. I could write to them."

"Thank you, madam, but this is not a trip designed for the ladies. All my time will be spent working with my team, preparing for an event."

Mrs. Allen and I began speaking at the same time. I gestured for her to continue.

"I'm sure Catherine and I could entertain them while you go about your business. I haven't seen your mother in many years. Is she well?

"Tolerably so. I'm afraid her constitution has weakened of late, especially following my father's death. Though she would, no doubt, delight in corresponding with you, I'm afraid she may not come to Bath at present. I will pass on your compliments to her, with your permission."

"Thank you, sir. That is very kind of you." She took a bite of fish.

"How long have you been in Bath, Sir Harry?" I said, anxious to get a word in.

"Just over a week."

"And have you been to the assembly rooms yet?"

"No indeed. I have no plans to attend any social events."

Mrs. Allen coughed, choking a little on the sip of wine she had just taken. "Not attend, sir? How could Bath do without you? How could you do without Bath, for that matter? Surely you will come to Catherine's first ball this Monday at the Upper Rooms. Catherine, you must ask him."

I drank from my glass. The notion rankled, so little did I wish to opportune Sir Harry on what could be to him, a trifle. I would not beg for company at my side.

"My dear Madam," said Sir Harry, breaking the awkward silence, "I regret to say I may not attend. But I do wish Miss Morland every success. Am I to understand you have recently come out?

I gaped at him, so shocked was I by the question.

My come out? My thoughts frozen, I struggled to process the information. Was I about to make my debut? If only my mother and father had been more forthright.

I looked over at Mrs. Allen, whose mouth was full of the next course. Then back to him.

"I…suppose."

He tilted his head to one side, as though intrigued. "You only suppose? Don't you know it?"

"To be frank, I have not thought about it at all."

"A girl—a lady—never having thought about her come out? Whom she will marry? I cannot believe it. My sisters spoke about it often growing up, even play-acting wedding ceremonies."

"I cannot say what other girls do, only myself."

He was about to resume interrogation, and I said quickly, "And what event brings you to Bath?"

Mr. Allen cleared his throat. "It's that horse of yours, isn't it?" he said.

"The very thing, sir. I am here on the very equine business of horseracing. I suppose you know, I purchased a fine racehorse in recent years. Are you at all acquainted with horse racing, Mrs. Allen?"

"Horse racing," she said, "is not something we see a lot of in Fullerton."

"But there is the track in Salisbury, Mrs. Allen. Mariah Lowforth and I were there during an event once."

"Is that so?" She eyed me askance. "I was not aware of your interest, Catherine. Do you think your father would approve?"

"It was quite a coincidence," I hurried to say, "as we had gone to town in search of a particular haberdasher that carves buttons in the shape of frigates."

"Frigates? What a novel thought. I can't imagine them being of great practical use, but as a decoration I find the idea charming. We must stop in Salisbury upon our return to Fullerton and you may show me this shop of yours. I have a very good notion for a hat."

Sir Harry turned his attention to me, peering round the tall platter between us. "And what sorts of things do you enjoy, Miss Morland? I daresay there were plenty of amusing things to do on the few visits I had as a boy to Fullerton, though I can't remember a one."

I looked to the side, searching for something interesting to say. "I do spend a great deal of my days in search of amusement. There are many fine trees for climbing and fields for exploring, though I have not done so much of that in the past year. My brothers tell me of a swing they have lately installed over the river that borders our property. I meant to see it, but the frost came and put an end to our fun when the rope froze in a tangle."

"My sisters delight in our still room. Have you an interest in such things? I cannot imagine what I would do inside all winter."

I laughed. "Spend the winter indoors? I did not mean that—no I could not possibly endure it. I do spend many hours reading I suppose, but I do so enjoy riding."

"And is your horse here in Bath? I would very much like to meet your horse. It must be a rare…creature." He paused, seeming to forget what he was saying. "That is, I suspect you would enjoy a spirited horse. You seem a very lively young woman."

I could not imagine that I'd been very lively during dinner, but he had done tolerably well at prevarication so far.

"Spirited, my foot," said Mrs. Allen. "That beast is the worse than the Devil's own brandy. He's like to frighten everyone away but Catherine and her groom. I'm amazed your Papa did not have him put down."

"She."

"What?"

"She. Medusa is not a boy. And you have only seen her at her worst, never at her best."

"Now I absolutely must meet her. A horse spoken of with such vehemence can only make an impression," said Sir Harry, a wide grin on his face.

"She is not in Bath." I hesitated.

I had desperately wished for her to come, but Mama forbade me, saying it was an imposition on the Allen's.

"Why ever not? I would go mad without my morning rides."

"I suppose there were no arrangements made," I said. I was afraid to look at Mr. or Mrs. Allen. I had hoped I might hint to Mr. Allen eventually that I wished my horse to be sent for, but I was afraid to say it now, so soon after a major debacle.

Sir Harry had no such compunction. He furrowed his brows and turned toward Mr. Allen.

"Mr. Allen, what can we do to correct this oversight?"

"—I do not wish to impose, sir," I said, fearful of his reaction.

Mr. Allen eyed me closely, though I saw him only through the corner of my eye.

"A horse, hmm? I cannot see the harm in that. Especially if it will keep you out of other mischeif." His eyebrow rose and half-glared at me.

I was delighted. "Oh, Mr. Allen, thank you thank you! You will not regret this allowance."

Mrs. Allen snorted. "Mr. Allen, how could you allow such a thing? Now Catherine will be racing all over town with that monster. I can't fashion a young lady out of thin air. This is a terrible idea."

Sir Harry laughed. "Come now, Mrs. Allen, you have not thought this through. Miss Morland will be seen each time she rides. Any consequence she gains through her excellent horsemanship will be a credit to yourself, naturally. I think if you ponder this a little longer, you will come round to the understanding that is a very good thing for a lady to have a horse. And for a horse to have a lady, too."

Mrs. Allen looked somewhat perturbed, but regained her countenance quickly. "It is a pity you will not be joining us at the ball. A great pity."

The conversation turned to business after that, Mr. Allen delving in the details of his estate and his earnings on crops. I found myself drifting away from the conversation more and more.

My thoughts went back to Sir Harry's question. Was I out?

I was more than a simple companion to Mrs. Allen, it seemed. She was to be my sponsor and chaperone. I saw that now. I heartily wished my mama would have addressed this. There is far too much unsaid at Fullerton.

But now…I finally see it. I understand. This adventure, this medically necessary attendance in Bath has yet another purpose.

It is my debut.

Though it has never been spoken of, the timing of this visit I cannot ignore. Seventeen is the age at which Mama married Papa. The same age my friend—Mariah Lowforth—had her season in London three years ago. She returned home at the end of that season with her fiancé, and was married within a month.

I was seventeen last July.

My heart raced, and I felt anxious. I had not lied to Sir Harry—I truly have not thought much of marriage. Perhaps part of me knew it was there in the distance, and the time before it should not be squandered with useless thoughts.

My head has never been turned by dreams of marriage and men. I fear Mrs. Allen will push me in that direction. It is not a topic Mama and I have ever discussed. Nor has there ever been occasion to do so—the last marriage that occurred in our neighborhood was Mariah's, and I was barely fourteen.

I was startled when Mrs. Allen suggested we withdraw, leaving the men to their port. I blinked, then nodded, my mind returning to the present.

We sat in the lounge for half an hour, and finally Mrs. Allen went up to bed. I thought about reading the book that I had picked up that afternoon at the lending library, but ventured outside instead, hoping to visit Ham in the stable before Sir Harry left.

I was dismayed to discover that he had not arrived a different mount, according to the stablehand I spoke with. I leaned against the outer wall of the stable, and stared blankly out at the street.

Disappointment is how I would describe the dinner conversation. I had so hoped he would regale us all with the tale of his adventurous morning. I'd been thinking about it all day—and to finally have the chance but for nothing to come of it...what a dreadful end to a trying day. I promptly turned and began walking back toward the front door. I stopped in my tracks halfway there, as Sir Harry came around the side.

He stopped where he stood, spotting me. I blushed, suddenly embarrassed to be caught lingering in the yard.

"I…I was just looking for Hamiltonian."

"And, I was looking for you," he said. "Your butler pointed me in the right direction."

"I looked for him in the stable."

He strolled toward me, one step after another. "You were telling the truth earlier, about never thinking of your debut. I first thought you were only pulling a line, but now I see I was mistaken."

"I was disappointed, but then I realized a valuable race horse probably isn't your regular mount."

"I asked myself, if not your debut, what did you dream about?"

"Why did you take him out this morning then?"

He halted, two steps away.

I took a small step back.

"Miss Morland," he said, "the answer to both questions is the same. We are both devoted to our horses. That is what you dream about."

"Why did you take him out this morning? And why did he bolt?"

He let out a breath. "I was taking Tony out for a morning of recreation. We were in Sydney Gardens, just up the road here."

I nodded, anxious to hear more.

"A large hat, what young persons might call a quiz, blew off a lady's head. Tony began prancing ever more than usual, and then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure blur past. Tony reared higher than I've ever seen him, and threw me. My pride insists I mention that he has never managed that before either."

I smiled, then said, "and then he bolted?"

He nodded. "Then he bolted, running straight through a throng of ladies, and one of them lost their shawl, as you know. It was a terrible coincidence, as he was already in an illogical frame of mind. I begged my companions horse from him and rode off. You know the rest. I thought that was the end of the story until I got Tony back home and had him examined. A hairline cut was found in his upper leg, a very sensitive area, that, though it would not have produced much blood."

I took in a sharp breath. "Are you saying he was stabbed?"

"With a small, fine blade. A pen knife, perhaps."

I put my hand to my mouth. "How horrible. Will he be able to race?"

"Oh yes. Don't trouble yourself there. I was foolish to take him out. As you can attest to, he is easily recognizable, with or without a shawl. The culprit is likely connected with one of the horses entered into the same race. Atrocities such as this are not unheard of in the racing community, though they have never happened to me."

That such a thing was nearly commonplace turned my stomach. I put my hand to my waist, the uneasiness spreading. I looked around, wishing for a seat.

"May I walk you to your door? You look somewhat pale." His face showed concern.

I silently accepted his arm, and leaned on him as we walked toward the door. It was open, Felten waiting for me.

We parted. Sir Harry said a quick word of goodbye, then turned back down the steps.

With more vigor than I felt, I said, "And you sir, are very forward to imagine you know what my dreams are. I've never dreamed about a horse in my life."

"That's the most bald-faced lie I've ever heard."

"You dare call a lady a liar?"

He grinned before turning the corner toward the stable, out of sight.

I walked slowly toward my room, my feet dragging, exhausted as I was. A feeling of unease had settled over me, one I worried I would not shrug off easily. But I had not lied to him. I was certain that I never dreamed about horses.

Indeed, I never dream at all.


	5. 4 February 1798

After days of tedium and more dreamless nights, the night of my debut arrived. It was never spoken of. Mrs. Allen did not offer me amy advice for me, and though I would have liked to ask, recoiled from the mention of it, as though speaking it aloud would shatter the courage I had built. As it was, the Upper Rooms were not quite what I was expecting.

After finally being dressed for the part, and my hair dressed by Mrs. Allen's own maid, Mrs. Allen finally permitted us to go to the social rooms. I admit to being trepidatious, indeed I was shaking during the whole ride there. So much dithering I have done on whether I really wished to come to this ball or not, and here it was, the moment staring me in the face.

Once out, you know, there is no going back in.

My new dress did give me courage. I wore a delicate striped muslin, with blue and green threaded flounces at the hem. I can see a little of what Mrs. Allen devotes herself to. I could put on this new garment, see my reflection the mirror, and imagine I was a brave new girl, or woman really, venturing out into the world for the first time. I wanted to think of myself that way, and not the shatterbrained role my mama assigns me to play.

We stepped out of the hired chairs—quite a strange experience I must confess, being carried about when many passed us on foot—and soon found ourselves inside the ballroom. My nervousness was all for naught, as not a soul looked our way as we entered.

No one who saw me asked for an introduction.

I spent most of the evening watching other ladies dance, counting the chandeliers, mistakenly believing I had seen Sir Harry only to realize that I was mistaken.

"I wish we had any acquaintance in Bath," repeated Mrs. Allen, for the third time in five minutes.

I'd responded the first two times with soothing words, but now held my tongue.

"I cannot tell you the frustration of the other evening at dinner," she said.

"Do you mean with Sir Harry?" I said, grateful for a distraction from the monotony of the evening.

"He refused to be agreeable. I'm sure his reasons for not attending tonight are very selfish ones. What he owes to his father's best friend did not signify to him.

"I'm sure he did not mean to be disagreeable. Mr. Allen did not ask him to attend either, did he?"

"No indeed, and I had words with him later, I promise you. He told me a deal about him that I wished I'd known before issuing the invitation however. He is something of a scoundrel."

"A scoundrel? Was he not quite gentlemanly?"

"With so little experience in the world, you can't know yet that the worst scoundrels are the most gentlemanly. I was nearly taken in once as a girl. I hope it never happens to you, my dear."

I looked away in frustration. "But, why is he a scoundrel? He was such a kind man."

Mrs. Allen turned her gaze on me. "Don't tell me you're sweet on him after only an hours acquaintance?"

I felt my face heat. "No. I am not sweet on him, but surely he deserves more than to be figured as a scoundrel without any proof. He may still turn up tonight, you can't know his intentions."

"He is a rake, my dear. Look at the facts. He refuses to bring his mother and sisters to Bath. He has no interest in social obligations, making friends, or meeting his future wife. His family could only help him there, and with them left behind I am convinced his motives for this trip are not at all the thing."

"Business seems an excellent reason—he must be so very busy. And his mother feeling poorly."

Mrs. Allen was finished with the conversation it seemed. She did not reply, but swiveled even more violently around the room.

The rest of the evening was of little consequence. There was much more of the same, and then we left.

My debut, as I considered it to be, had come and gone. I needn't have been worried. It appeared that for at least this evening, I was merely a companion after all.

The ballroom, though lovely, was so crowded I could barely see the architecture, let alone admire it. The air was thick and I did not enjoy the incessant noise.

I did not dance once the entire evening. Aside from a tea break, we stayed for the entire ball, wishing we could be as merry as the rest. Worse, I had been obliged to hear Mrs. Allen repeat ad nauseam, "I wish you could dance, my dear—I wish you could get a partner."

Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Allen. Let us not dwell on it.

As we were walking out, I did believe I heard two young men say I was pretty, and my spirits lifted. I turned my head toward them, but then soon realized they meant another girl as their eyes had not truly been cast in my direction.

My minuscule hope that Sir Harry would overcome whatever barrier was preventing him from attending tonight did not come to pass. I cannot deny the disappointment I felt. I did find him charming, and I cannot believe a man who cares so much for his horse can truly be a scoundrel. I will attribute it to Mrs. Allen feeling spiteful.

It appears I am safe from him, after all. Though I am less certain I wish to be.

I am ashamed to own to it, but I did believe I would capture the fancy of a young man tonight—possibly Sir Harry, or another.

I imagined floating into the room, ravishing in my new dress. At first I would see no one who would capture my fancy. But when I was announced he would look up, see me there, and his face would transform.

I look at him through my eyelashes, telling myself it is another he sees, though there is none behind me. I do not believe it until he comes my way, bringing the master of ceremonies to provide the necessary introduction, and then the rest of the night, and my life, would be a whirl of dancing and happiness.

Such were my innermost thoughts. Foolish, ridiculous thoughts. How grateful I am that no one knows of the journal I keep. I fear I may put many embarrassing things in it.

This evening, however, there is very little to record.


	6. 8 February 1798

Four days following, we went again to the assembly rooms—the Lower Rooms this time. We'd been out to various entertainments every day, and I couldn't help but look for Sir Harry Vane-Tempest. Such a kind gentleman he had been, and I still chaffed at Mrs. Allen's groundless accusations toward him.

My mind was occupied in these thoughts when, soon after Mr. Allen disappeared into the card room, two men approached us. The first was an older gentleman, whom I believed I had seen before. The second, trailing him, was tall and quite animated in his step.

"Mrs. Allen, Miss Morland," said the first before bowing, "I am Mr. King, the master of ceremonies."

"We are very pleased to make your acquaintance," said Mrs. Allen.

The second man stepped forward into our circle.

"Miss Morland," Mr. King turned toward me, "may I introduce you to Mr. Tilney, a gentleman of Gloucestershire?"

Mr. Tilney did not tower above me, but when he stepped closer, I felt like a shetland pony in the shadow of a thoroughbred stallion. His countenance held a sprightly energy, pervasive in its effects. I felt my mouth turn up into a smile as he looked into my face.

I curtsied in greeting. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Tilney."

"And I am pleased that you are pleased," he said, with a jovial lilt to his voice. He turned to Mrs. Allen. "Mrs. Allen. I am delighted to meet you as well."

She nodded, her cheek in bloom. "Thank you sir."

"I have the keenest desire to dance this evening. My dear Mrs. Allen, might you release your charge into my care for a time?"

One might have thought Mrs. Allen was being sought for her own hand in dance, as she replied with a giggle that I had to look away from. "Oh, yes, Mr. Tilney. What a delightful proposition."

"And you, Miss Morland?" he said as he turned toward me, "Would you care to dance?"

"Yes," I said in a whispered croak, exhaling the last of the breath I had been holding during nearly the entire exchange with Mrs. Allen.

"That is," I began again, "I would be delighted. Thank you, sir."

I curtsied. I dared not ask Mrs. Allen later if that curtsy was entirely necessary, as I feared for the answer. Mr. Tilney's face continued in its bright countenance without a flicker, and so I hoped I had not embarrassed myself.

He took my hand. His grip was firm and warm, and I imagined for a moment what it would be if he would never let me go. The dance set soon began, and I felt as though I was riding on the wind. The room lights dazzled as I turned in the set, and I felt Mr. Tilney's eyes upon me as we danced.

We went into tea after dancing, and shared a table with Mrs. Allen.

"I have hitherto been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here. I have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath, whether you were ever here before, whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and the concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have been very negligent—but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these particulars? If you are I will begin directly," said Mr. Tilney.

After his long speech, so unexpected, it took a moment to find my tongue. "You need not give yourself that trouble, sir," I said, wondering what he was about.

"No trouble, I assure you, madam." Then forming his features into a set smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering air, "Have you been long in Bath, madam?"

"About a week, sir."

"Really!" His face appeared quite astonished.

"Why should you be surprised, sir?"

"Why, indeed!" he said, in his natural tone. "But some emotion must appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed, and not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you never here before, madam?"

"Never, sir." I stifled a laugh.

"Indeed! Have you yet honored the Upper Rooms?"

"Yes, sir, I was there last Monday."

"Have you been to the theater?"

"Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday."

"To the concert?"

"Yes, sir, on Wednesday."

"And are you altogether pleased with Bath?"

"Yes—I like it very well."

"Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again," he said.

I was uncertain if I was allowed to laugh aloud at his ridiculous posturing.

"I see what you think of me," he said with exceptional gravity—"I shall make but a poor figure in your journal tomorrow."

I felt my stomach drop. "My journal?" I said, my expression guarded.

"Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower Rooms. Wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings—plain black shoes—appeared to much advantage, but was strangely harassed by a queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by his nonsense."

I felt my face heat. For all his absurdity, he had closely scrutinized me. What else had he seen? Not too many of my foibles, I hoped.

"Indeed, I shall say no such thing," I managed, my voice steady.

"Shall I tell you what you ought to say?" he said, his gaze appearing to close in on me, though he did not come any nearer.

I drank from my glass, though it failed to reduce the flush I knew was visible. "If you please," I said.

He moved forward a fraction, and I could see a quarter smile on one side of his mouth. "I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King, had a great deal of conversation with him—" he paused, and smiled fully, "seems a most extraordinary genius—hope I may know more of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to say."

He had completely disarmed me—and I couldn't help but laugh.

"But, perhaps, I keep no journal," I said. He would not win.

His eyebrows rose, his forehead furrowing in a perfect line.

"Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by you. These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a journal! How are your absent cousins to understand the tenor of your life in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of every day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down every evening in a journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered, and the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to be described in all their diversities, without having constant recourse to a journal?"

I struggled to keep my countenance. What could I say to such a speech? His words made be feel trivial and silly, as though I cared for nothing but compliments and clothing.

"What an astonishing thing to say," I said, flabbergasted at his rudeness. I cannot imagine he would spend an hour in my company and then endeavor to give insult to my face—unless I have misunderstood. I looked to Mrs. Allen for help, but she was still engaged in conversation with another party.

"My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young ladies' ways as you wish to believe me."

"Indeed? Your ignorance would have been more becoming."

"Oh? But it is this delightful habit of journaling which largely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which ladies are so generally celebrated. Everybody allows that the talent of writing agreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have done something, but I am sure it must be essentially assisted by the practice of keeping a journal."

I took a deep breath in and released it. I would not take offense when none was intended.

"I have sometimes thought," I said, looking up, "whether ladies do write so much better letters than gentlemen. That is—I should not think the superiority was always on our side."

"As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the usual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three particulars."

"And what are they?" I asked, now unable to conceal my irritation.

His smile never wavered. "A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a very frequent ignorance of grammar."

"Upon my word!" I said. My napkin bunching within my fist, I continued, "I need not have been afraid of disclaiming the compliment. You do not think too highly of us in that way."

"I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better letters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better landscapes. In every power, of which taste is the foundation, excellence is pretty fairly divided between the sexes," he said.

"I see, thus to write only agreeable letters, whether they are better or no—"

"My dear Catherine," Mrs. Allen said, "do take this pin out of my sleeve. I am afraid it has torn a hole already. I shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favorite gown, though it cost but nine shillings a yard."

I tore my attention away from Mr. Tilney, and focused on Mrs. Allen's gown, searching for the pin.

"That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam," said Mr. Tilney, turning to Mrs. Allen.

"Do you understand muslins, sir?" said Mrs. Allen as I removed the pin.

"Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be an excellent judge. And my sister has often trusted me in the choice of a gown. I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be a prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five shillings a yard for it, and a true Indian muslin."

Mrs. Allen, already under his spell, appeared further struck by his genius. "Men commonly take so little notice of those things," she said. "I can never get Mr. Allen to know one of my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your sister, sir."

"I hope I am, madam."

"And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland's gown?"

I felt his look. He stood up, and walked around the table. "It is very pretty, madam," he said, gravely examining it, "but I do not think it will wash well. I am afraid it will fray."

"How can you be so—" I stopped myself. Ridiculous. Brash. Conceited. Forward…I could go on.

"I am quite of your opinion, sir," replied Mrs. Allen, "and so I told Miss Morland when she bought it."

"But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or other. Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than she wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces."

Mrs. Allen conversed with him for the rest of tea. He did not fail in his politeness, but he did appear to flatter and convey more interest than might have been necessary. If he is to laugh at us, I suppose Mrs. Allen should not be left out. Though I did not care for him making a joke of me.

"What are you thinking of so earnestly?" he said, startling me out of my reverie. "Not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head, your meditations are not satisfactory." We had begun to walk back toward the ballroom.

My face felt aflame once more. "I was not thinking of anything."

"That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once that you will not tell me."

"Well then, I will not," I said, wishing the conversation at an end.

"Thank you," he said, "for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world advances intimacy so much."

"And shall we meet again sir?" I asked. I was sure he was wishing our acquaintance at and end.

"Very soon I hope, if you will agree to partner me in the next set."

I nodded in agreement, too bewildered to give a proper answer. There was little opportunity to converse as the set was a lively one, and we parted soon after.

Mrs. Allen pronounced the evening a prodigious success, and Mr. Allen went so far as to remark his pleasure at my meeting such a suitable young man. Mr. Tilney was a clergyman, as Mr. Allen tells it, from a respectable family.

He was not as handsome as Sir Harry. Nor was he as kind. And I would not have admitted to him for all the world that he was right about the journal.

When I took it out that evening, I wrote down all that Mr. Tilney said I should. A rather good laugh it was, after all.

_But I cannot take Mr. Tilney seriously. Indeed, I daresay he was not serious for a moment the entire evening. His remarks on the fairer sex were quite upsetting. I wonder, do all men think ladies so trivial? Am I trivial? I had not thought so before, and I curse the man._ _There. I have said it. _ _I cannot like him, but I do have a perverse desire to see him again. He has stung my pride and I wish to give him a set down for it—an attempt to crack his facade—though I fear I will fail miserably. He appeared to be without a party, so perhaps I will not see him often. When he first approached, something of my dream of that first night in the Upper Rooms trickled into my thoughts, but I see now what a fool I was._ _Goodbye, Mr. Tilney._


	7. 9 February 1798

The next day at the pump room, I was on the look out for Mr. Tilney and Sir Harry—to avoid the former and seek the latter, though the order was flexible.

Mr. Allen was taking his daily dose of the vile waters while Mrs. Allen and I sat by the clock. We had done many loops around the room, and each time around Mrs. Allen would once more lament, "how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here"—but then all was saved. An old schoolfriend of hers presented herself to us, a Mrs. Thorpe and her three daughters. The name seemed familiar to me—as did mine to them. Indeed, the strange coincidence was that John Thorpe, Mrs. Thorpe's son, and my brother James are friends from Oxford, and James stayed at their house for a week after last Christmas. The eldest sister, Isabella, seemed particularly interested in me. How fortunate I was to become friendly with the sister of my own brother's dear friend.

"You must call me Isabella. I feel as though we know each other already, through your brother."

Her enthusiasm made me relax. She was three or four years my senior, and seemed a mature young lady. "And you must call me Catherine."

We walked toward Pulteney Street, her having obtained permission to walk home with us.

"And how are you enjoying bath, my dearest?" said Isabella. "Have you stolen any hearts yet?"

"None at all, I'm sure," I said, "A week must be too short a period to form a deep attachment."

She giggled, then said, "What a tease you are, my dear Catherine—why I had three beaux in line by the end of my first week in Tunbridge Wells last summer."

"Only someone with an unparalleled character could inspire such devotion. How lucky I am to have met such a friend, Isabella."

She smiled, the movement bringing out the smoothness of her cheeks, rendering her even more beautiful. "If I had only but known Ja—your brother—had a sister his equal, I would have come to visit you directly, my dear." She reached out and took my hand, clasping it in her own. "And now you must not keep me in suspense a moment longer. You have a delicious secret—I am sure of it."

I absently pinched the fabric of my skirt. "What kind of secret?" I hoped she hadn't heard any rumors of the horse incident—I had been eavesdropping on strangers conversations in the pump room for that very purpose.

Isabella slowed her step slightly, widening the gap between us and the Allens. "Oh, you sly thing, I speak of gentlemen, naturally. What do you say? I am certain there must be someone you need to talk over with a friend."

I did wish for the advice of one more modern than Mrs. Allen. "Well…there are two men."

She put her hand to her mouth, concealing a squeal. "Two! I just knew it. Now don't hold anything back!"

"Shh, I don't want Mrs. Allen to hear. She tells me one is a scoundrel, and the other a saint. I must disagree with her on each point."

"Oooh, but scoundrels are so dreamy. I have often wished for a scoundrel of my own."

I laughed. "What nonsense, why should you wish for a scoundrel? Would they not be very dangerous sorts?"

"Not at all. A scoundrel is nothing more than a devilishly good looking man."

"Mrs. Allen does not think so. She spoke of Sir Harry Vane-Tempest with such rancor that I thought it was more."

"Vane-Tempest? What a thrilling name. If I were Lady Vane-Tempest, I should consider myself very fortunate."

"Yes. I must admit to thinking the same. Only, he does not attend social events. Mrs. Allen invited him to come dance with me at a ball, and he wouldn't come. I might have been offended had he not shown kindness in other ways. But I can't figure out how to see more of him. He has a very fine horse—indeed, he has a racehorse—that I should also like to see, but I don't know the first thing of how to go about it."

Isabella looked thoughtful. "A racehorse, has he? Even more delicious. But why not go to the racetrack and seek him there? You cannot send a note—"

"No, his address isn't known to me either, even if I wished to."

She waived her hand. "That is neither here nor there, servants are very good at finding directions. But a note would not be suitable in this instance. I think…" she paused, her gaze distant, as though forming a plan. "Yes. I know what we'll do. We shall go on a long walk, you and I."

"A long walk? To the racetrack?"

She shook her head. "Leave it to me! When you tell Mrs. Allen you are going on a walk, simply say I wanted to show you a favorite walk of mine." She skipped a few steps, laughing gaily. "How does that sound?"

"Delightful," I said, excited as I was at the prospect of going out with Isabella.

I felt somewhat uneasy, as the plan had a note of secrecy to it that I knew Mrs. Allen would appreciate. I was sure she would not, as the whole endeavor would be to catch a glimpse of a "scoundrel." No, she would certainly not approve.

She halted at the apex of Avon bridge. I watched her look out toward the water. The wind blew at her back, framing her face. I admired her beauty and poise. She seemed to know her way in the world, and spoke with an assurance and understanding that I could never manage.

She turned her head toward me, and beckoned me to stand with her.

Again looking out at the rushing river, "Take my hand, Catherine, and hold it tight." She thrust her hand out toward me without looking, and I took it as I came to stand beside her.

I could see lines of tension in her forehead, as though she was struggling. "Isabella? Are you quite alright?"

She shivered. "There is something about bridges, Catherine. The water rushing by, I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be part of it all. Am I strange? Tell me that you do the same."

I gazed at her closely. "I think I know what you mean, although I think of horses, and not water." I looked out on the water, watching it ripple around a boulder. "In the story of Persephone, some texts say that Hades took her to the underworld through a magical river. When she tried to escape, the river pulled her under. She began to drown—Hades could have let her die—but he saved her."

She gripped my had more tightly. "Let us go and talk of happier things."

We were in Laura Place before she spoke again. "What of the other?"

"What other?" My thoughts were still with the river.

"The other man you mentioned. The saint."

I exhaled, wishing she had not remembered to ask. "His name is Tilney. I liked him at first, so convivial he appeared. But I don't know what to think now. He cared more for making his point than for my feelings. He did not seem to realize he had offended me."

"What a horrid man! When do you see him next?"

"I do not know. I looked for him today and did not see him. I had hoped to say something to return the offense I suppose, but that thought was beneath me. I am glad he was not there."

A glint appeared in Isabella's eye. "Well if he does show up, perhaps we can concoct a plan for him too." She giggled, and we locked elbows, strolling the rest of the way to my lodgings. We arranged the particulars of the time to meet for our walk, and parted with smiles on both sides.

That evening, I looked for the two gentleman at the theater, but saw neither.


	8. 11 February 1798

Sunday could not fly by quickly enough for me, so eager was I to go out with Isabella. We had arranged to go out Monday at eleven o clock.

I awoke slowly on the looked for morning, thoughts drifting in and out.

Of Sir Harry, I was not sure what I felt for him personally. I did admire him, and of course, was keen on seeing Ham again. Isabella seemed to think I was half in love with him, or even more. I could not say. She takes an idea and rushes forward with it, almost heedless of anything else.

Her lingering on the bridge still troubled me. Isabella is so much like Mariah. Too much so. It made me wonder whether there might be a dark secret in Isabella's past. I was too new a friend for such a confidence and I certainly could never ask. My only course of action was to be a good friend.

I finally arose and went about my morning in half a daze. I pulled an evening gown completely over my shoulders before I realized what I was doing. I tore it off and put on a walking dress more suitable to the days outing. I was so excited I reminded myself to breath every so often, as I would catch myself dreaming of bumping into Sir Harry again, and what might come of it.

At breakfast, Mrs. Allen's conversation was the order of things, as per usual. Mr. Allen hid behind his newspaper, though I sometimes caught his eye peeking over it at one of us.

Mrs. Allen stopped speaking, with a pause so long I was compelled to look up from my food. She looked so distraught, I was concerned something terrible had happened.

"Dearest Catherine," she began, "You must be so terribly upset."

My unease deepened into apprehension. "Why?" I asked, "Has something dreadful happened?"

"It's what has not happened that must upset you."

I furrowed my brow, confusion growing as I failed to comprehend what she was saying.

"I don't know Mrs. Allen—what has not happened? I wish you would just say it, I am growing quite fretful."

She nodded and reached over the table to rest her hand on mine. "As would I be, my dear, if my hopes had been dashed."

"What hopes do you mean?" Surely she did not know about the outing planned for today.

"Oh, that is, the gallant young man you met three days past. I've been expecting him to call and he has not. Indeed, I expected he would come Saturday, but then imagined some unforeseen circumstance had prevented him. But to have Sunday come and go with no card left either—I thought you must be feeling desolate."

I knew not what my countenance held—I really was trying my hardest not to laugh.

"Thank you for your concern," I said. "It should be I that is consoling you. He should have owed a visit to you, far more than myself. He was so interested in fashion that I thought you two a thick pair."

Her eyes cast down at her plate. "Yes, you are such a thoughtful girl. I must own to feeling disappointed on my own account as well. It is terribly rude of a gentleman to avoid his duty of calling on a girl he has danced with. It is so wholly unexpected that I must come to a single inevitable conclusion."

She took a bite of eggs, as though she was aware of the dramatic pause she was stretching out.

I decided to prod her along. "And what conclusion is that?

With the greatest dignity, she replied, "He has left town—he must have gone the very next morning. Some urgent business, I presume. I know he would have come to pay his respects otherwise."

"Of course he would have," I said. "How could he have resisted your remarkable conversation? I know mine seemed to bore him to death, rest assured there is no reason for me to feel even minutely desolated. He gave me no indication of favor, and if he did quit town immediately following and did not send any notice to us, I am positive that we can rally and move on straightaway."

Mrs. Allen nodded, taking in my arguments, but I could see the hurt was not assuaged.

"And what of the Thorpes?" I continued, "Such delightful acquaintances have been found to replace any want of company that Mr. Tilney's absence may have caused, I feel certain that you will not miss him a jot after spending a few minutes in Mrs. Thorpe's company."

Her head lifted during my speech, and I could see some of her bubbly nature return.

"You are quite right my dear, I should not let myself feel unhappy when there are such friends to be met. But do not imagine you did not capture his fancy. I feel certain you did, and that there is some great explanation for his disappearance."

A sigh nearly escaped my lips, so tired was I of thinking of him. A polite, "perhaps," was all I could muster.

Several hours later, I found myself in Isabella's company, hurrying down the front steps. We laughed and smiled, talking of this and that. I was thrilled to be out with a companion near my own age and station, Mr. and Mrs. Allen fading from my thoughts, as well as any concern for their disapproval.

It was not far to the racetrack, it turned out.

"How did you discover its location?" I said.

She winked. "Oh, it was the easiest thing in the world, my dear. I asked one of the servants at Edgar's Buildings, where we are staying."

"How clever you are! I should never have thought to ask the servants."

"Oh, it is one of my greatest tricks. They know everything. Anything that my brother deems unfit for my ears, I simply go and ask a maid! They know it all. You'd be amazed at the amount of gossip shared between them. Oh—there it is! Look, Catherine, look!"

I turned and beheld the view Isabella had remarked on—a great open space with tents and seating on either side. It stretched into the distance, almost endlessly, though I knew it had to be some finite distance measured for a race. There were not many people there, mostly trainers I imagined. I knew it likely that Sir Harry would not be there—why should he be? It was not as though he lived there. Still, it was an exhilarating sight, as I had not been to a racetrack since Salisbury.

Isabella grabbed my hand and pulled. "Come on! We're running late."

I put my hand over my hat, desirous as it was to fly off my head as we hurried. "Late for what?"

"I have it on good authority that the race takes place two days hence. Sir Harry Vane-Tempest is often seen here in the hour before noon. I only wish we haven't missed him."

"How could you know all that? Your servant couldn't be so knowledgeable."

"I bribed her with an extra half-day off! She made some inquiries for me yesterday afternoon."

We entered the gate. I began to wish we had not come.

"What if he is here? How shall we explain ourselves?" I said.

Isabella squeezed my hand. "The truth, naturally. That we came hoping to catch a glimpse of that horse you so adore. We shall not say a word about hoping to see the man himself, of course, that would be showing our hand. A lady must be as mysterious as possible. It's practically a rule, you know."

"Is it? I'm afraid I'm not good at being mysterious."

We went toward a row of seats under a bright red canopy, and settled ourselves there to watch.

Only a few minutes passed before I saw Hambletonian himself. He was finishing a heat, looking very well, but tired. I stood and called his name for a moment before I realized I was drawing attention to myself. I immediately sat and looked away.

Isabella gave me a look. "Remember—mysterious, dear. You look a bit too enthused."

I bit my lips, trapping my mouth closed. "Mmm-hmm."

We sat for another few minutes before I heard Isabella let out a stifled shriek.

So focused as I was at looking mysteriously into my lap, the approach of a horse caught me off guard. Isabella backed into the corner of the tent, and I realized Ham had come to me. He was alone, and must have wandered away from his rider somehow.

"Oh Ham. It is so good to see you again." I leaned into his cheek, listening to him breathe.

From the corner of my eye I saw the jockey approach. I looked toward him. The sun in my eye, I could see a tall figure in silhouette, the sun streaming through his white shirt. I looked away, the glimpse I'd had through the too-thin fabric making my face heat.

"Well, well. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to see you here. Though must admit I'm surprised you didn't come sooner."

I blocked the sun with my arm overhead. I knew that voice.

"Hello," said Sir Harry.

I paused, the silence drawing out tick by tick. I thought furiously, but could not muster a syllable.

Finally, I said, "aren't you a little big for a jockey?" I blushed immediately, the impropriety of my speech glaring.

He gave a deep chuckle. "I am. But I only practice with her half the time, to build her strength. I have a regular jockey too."

"Huh," I said, too embarrassed to come up with anything more. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Isabella come out of hiding.

"You must meet my friend, Miss Thorpe." I took a step towards her. "Isabella, may I introduce Sir Harry Vane-Tempest."

He nodded. "Delighted, Miss Thorpe."

"Yes, a pleasure," she said, "and what a lovely creature you have there. B-but I do find him a trifle intimidating. Does he always nose about in that way?"

He and I turned about simultaneously, noticing Ham sniffing a swath of fabric.

"Come now, Tony," he said, taking Ham's reins, "you wandered away from a perfectly good trough of oats to come and sniff at some moldy fabric?"

Isabella looked terribly pale, though she tried to smile in thanks.

I was torn with indecision, knowing I needed to remove Isabella but delighting in every second spent with Ham and his illusive owner. But really, there was really no choice in the matter.

I went over to Isabella. Taking her clammy hand in my own, I said, "Let us go, dearest." I turned to Sir Harry. "I wish you well in your race on Wednesday."

He took a step closer, keeping his hand loose on the reins. "Ah. So you have heard of it. You must come and see Tony win."

A thought suddenly entered my head. I couldn't believe that I'd forgotten. "And was the culprit ever found? is Ham quite recovered?"

His face darkened, and he shook his head. "No. I'm afraid not, but thankfully there was no lasting harm. Tony has rallied and is even more fit than he was ten days past." He waited a beat, then said, "And will you come?"

I trembled a bit, the feeling of being sought after was thrilling but unnerving as well. I hesitated, unsure of whether my presence would be proper. My father would certainly not approve—for very good reason. But…he was not here.

I nodded. "If Mr. Allen approves, I will come."

A relieved look passed over his face. "Thank you. I did not wish to make you feel obliged, but Tony likes you. I think you are rather indispensable as good luck charm. With your permission, I shall write to Mr. Allen requesting the company of you both."

"Thank you." I smiled. "Permission granted."

He nodded. "And now, please excuse me. Until we meet again. Miss Morland, Miss Thorpe." He nodded to each of us, then turned and walked swiftly away, Tony trotting along side.

The tension in Isabella's small frame eased a bit. I pulled her quickly out of the tent, and we were well away from the racetrack before I attempted to scold.

"Isabella—"

"No. Don't say a word. I'm well now my dear. I'm glad we went. Aren't you?"

"I'm don't know. I always delight to see Ham, but I felt as though we were trespassing on Sir Harry's privacy."

She waived her hand. "Oh come dear. Be a big girl. He enjoyed every moment of displaying himself. Did you not see how he soaked in the attention? He is a lovely man. I would be jealous if not for…well, hah! You'll just have to wait and see."

The spring had returned to her step.

"I'm terribly sorry, just the same. I wish you'd told me you feared horses."

"Nonsense. This was my idea. A moment of unease is nothing for a friend. And I don't always fear horses. This one seemed particularly powerful, and I think being inside the tent made it all the more…impactful."

—

Later that afternoon, Mr. Allen found me alone in the sitting room.

"I've just had a letter from Sir Harry Vane-Tempest. You'll remember him, I should think."

His tone was light, but I held the book I was reading a little more tightly. I hadn't told Sir Harry that the morning's excursion had been a secret.

"Yes. It was a memorable day."

"Well, he has written requesting our attendance at a race the day after tomorrow."

My eyes met his, anxious to hear more. "What a splendid notion. May we go?"

Mr. Allen leaned back in his chair. I could see the letter folded in his breast pocket. "I have one or two reservations. Now, don't worry Catherine, I'm of a mind to grant his request. It is a particularly flattering one."

Relief must have shown on my face, for he said, "Relax, dear. I may have a temper, but I've never given anyone reason to fear me. I should be sorry to start now. I'm not going to bite off your head."

"Of course not," I said hastily, "I am sorry to have given that impression."

"What I wish to know is why your father loathes the racetrack."

I took a deep breath, gearing up for a difficult conversation.

"By chance, Mr. Lowforth, Mariah and I were in Salisbury three years ago when we discovered the Stonehenge Stakes were going on, so we decided to attend." I turned my head and looked blankly at the window, recalling it all. It had been one of the worse days of my life—and the best, for I had seen Hambletonian race and had never forgotten it. My father's wrath was truly horrible. I was not permitted to leave my room for a week afterward, was forbidden to see Mariah for a month—and yet, I couldn't recall him ever explicitly saying I could not go to a race. He'd always made excuses when I'd asked, but I never fully understood.

I considered what to tell Mr. Allen.

"He was furious with me for going. Mamma told me later that Papa had lost someone dear to him at a racetrack during his years abroad—indeed, that he had witnessed it occur. From the way she spoke, I thought it might have been a woman that died. I believe, when he learned that I'd been to the Stakes, his thought was of the death he'd witnessed, and reacted with that in his mind. Not before or since has he specifically barred me from the racetrack, but I have also never been given an opportunity to attend, and I wouldn't have risked going after learning what I did. Have you ever heard him speak of that woman, if it was a woman, that is?"

Mr. Allen took a moment to reply. ""Not directly. But I know your grandfather was angry with him while he was abroad, believing him to have made a very foolish match. Your father married your mother a few years after that. She was still in the schoolroom at the time when your father was abroad, so I knew there must have been another woman."

I nodded. "I see. He has always been private about his years abroad. I never understood it really, three years ago."

Mr. Allen exhaled, slumping a bit in his chair. "I respect your father. Very much. But you are a grown woman now, and you are in my care. I do not see anything dangerous about your attending this race. Were the invitation from a stranger, I might not choose to be so lenient, but I feel that in this case, what your father doesn't know won't hurt him."

I smiled fiercely and threw myself into a hug. "Thank you, Mr. Allen! I will never forget this kindness."

He slowly put his arms around me, as though unaccustomed to the movement.

Servants could be heard hurrying about as they began dinner preparations, and Mr. Allen soon went back to his newspaper in his private sitting room.

After he left, I got up and looked out into the rainy weather.

Another memory was pressing in my mind. While tidying the parlor one day a year or so after the Stonehenge Stakes, a letter dropped from the pocket of my father's coat when I lifted it from the floor, and I took it up. It was a love letter, dated many years previous—long before he married Mama. When I realized what it was, I was sorry to have opened it, and hurriedly made to fold it up. But before I could do so, I saw the signature. Then I put it back in his coat, and left his coat where I'd found it.

The signature read, "Your beloved, Catherine."


	9. 13 February 1798

I won't deny that discovering I was named after my fathers former love did not affect me. It did. I was angry at first, and I had a thousand questions. Who was she? How much did my mother know? What had happened to her?

I now knew the answer to the last question. I'd wondered if the woman at the racetrack was her, but until Mr. Allen had confirmed she was likely in a relationship with my father, I hadn't liked to believe her dead.

It explained so much about my father. Why he reacted so strongly to me, personally, going to the racetrack. Why he held such impossibly high standards for me, while my younger sisters did not receive near the amount of censure he saved for me.

Indeed, my obsession with Hambletonian I lay at his door. I would have remembered it no matter what—it was my first race. But it was also my last. The week I spent in my room, I escaped again and again to that day, going over every detail. It was not long before I began reading the newspaper closely for any hint of a mention of racing, and especially Hambletonian . I never expected to see him again. But I hoped.

Two mornings later, Mr Allen and I slipped away quietly. He left a note saying practically nothing—But I suspected Mrs. Allen was used to his brevity and would think nothing of it.

The race was nothing short of spectacular. We arrived to find Sir Harry waiting for us, whereupon he led us into the waiting area where Ham and his jockey were queued for the scale.

"Tony, I wanted you to know Miss Morland is here to see you. Now what have you to say?" said Sir Harry.

Ham let out a low rumbling nicker, and nuzzled my cheek. I stroked his head, and whispered "good luck" to him.

Sir Harry lead us to a private viewing area with seats and a woven trellis overhead. Mr. Allen and I sat down in the middle of the four seats, and to my delight, Sir Harry sat in the empty chair beside me. There were around fifty horses entered for the race, more than anyone could have expected for such a low profile race course. Mr. Allen said to Sir Harry, "That is due to your arrival, dear boy. You've drawn them in for a grand show."

Ham ran in the fourth qualifying heat. I cheered and called until my throat felt sore—only afterward did I realize it was not what anyone could have called ladylike. I worried for a moment of making a cake of myself until I realize the others were both doing the same. He finished second in the heat, and Sir Harry whispered, "He's saving it."

Then the final round began. I leaned over the box side, my hat and hair coming loose, as I squinted to see Ham at the far regions of the track. I had eyes for nothing else.

The wind picked up, and it blew my hair and skirt about wildly. When Ham came in first, I swung my arms up high, hoping to make myself more visible to Ham below.

I like to think he saw me, but in all the chaos, I couldn't be sure whether he could see five feet in front of him. There was a bit of business for both men after that, winnings to collect and such. And in less than an hour we soon found ourselves dining at Sir Harry's hotel.

"A delightful morning," he said, placing his napkin in his lap, "I hope you both enjoyed yourselves."

We were in his private dining room, and a waiter began to bring in scrumptious smelling dishes.

"I'm sure we both did, and there can be no doubt that Catherine enjoyed herself," said Mr. Allen.

I felt my face heat at the memory of all my undignified behavior, then realized he might be referring to the sorry state of my appearance. My attempts to fix it back into a style were rather sorry.

"Yes I did. I was so pleased to be there. Thank you so much, Sir Harry," I said. "It was truly a memorable day.

His eyes rested on mine in that unsettling way of his, making my stomach flutter. "No, Miss Morland, I must thank you. I'm quite put out that you reside so far from my home, as most of Tony's racing takes place locally in my home county of Durham."

"You've traveled quite a distance then, for a single race event," said Mr. Allen.

He smiled slightly at Mr. Allen. "I must admit, I did not travel here for the race. I have been looking into the possibility of selling Tony's stud services, primarily at my mother's urging. There were several interested parties near here that I have been spending many of my days with in discussion. I have nearly decided against it, however. It would mean taking Tony out of the racing circuit, and I think he would miss it."

Mr. Allen laughed. "You would miss it, don't you mean? You're a whipfire betting man, Harry. You always have been, from what your father told me."

"Why would you need to travel to Bath for setting Ham up as a stud? Surely there are many horse breeders nearer to Durham," I said.

"That's true, but I did not want to offer it to anybody I knew. I am yet undecided. And I always wanted to come to Bath. My mother loves it here, and used to tell me stories about it."

"What stories?" I said.

He chewed slowly, his gaze in the air above my head, as though deep in thought. "There is a castle ruin several miles south of here, known as Farleigh Hungerford. Do you know it?"

"No," I said, my interest taken, "I would dearly love to see it—I am a great enthusiast of ruins and architecture."

"Really? Well, it is worth a visit. I saw it my first week here, and unfortunately I am leaving Bath tomorrow."

"Oh," I said, disappointment sweeping over me, "that is...unfortunate."

"I am sure we shall meet again. We have mutual acquaintances, you know."

His eye made a fearful twitch. Had he just tried to wink at me? Perhaps he intended to visit the Allen's after their return to Bath. The thought heartened me.

"And the ruins?" I said.

"Ah. The story is a terrible one. A woman made prisoner for nearly five years in a tower, her husband sending up poisoned food and drink all the while. She survived only because of the meat and drink brought to her in the night by the villagers."

"What a tall tale. I cannot believe it. I've read plenty of stories with such gothic plots, but they are purely speculative."

"No, it is true, I assure you. She was his third wife—the first two dying rather young of unknown causes. Whether or not the man was responsible for their deaths is certainly speculation, but the locals believe it. He was well known, a Sir Walter Hungerford, I believe, and beheaded the same day as Thomas Cromwell."

"When was that?"

Mr. Allen laughed. "Catherine, you have just given yourself away."

I huffed. "Well, Mr. Allen, I'm sure your opinion of my store of knowledge was never terribly high to begin with. I always mix up the two Cromwells. I never studied history aside from what mama forced on me, and I swear I managed to forget most of it what I did learn."

"I can answer you," said Sir Harry. He did not attempt to hide his smirk. "I believe it was 1540. If by the other you refer to Oliver Cromwell—he died more than a century later."

"Ha! More than a century you say. So you do not know the exact year either!"

He hesitated. "I would not dare contradict a lady."

I looked at my plate. His attempt at delicacy left me feeling as though I had been put down rather than up.

Mr. Allen began speaking once more of Sir Harry's father, and I finished eating while they talked. I looked for opportunities to rejoin the conversation, certain I had made the situation worse with my silence, but could not break in. I opted instead for a cheerful aspect, and was rewarded with several looks from Sir Harry, including me as he could.

It was soon time for Mr. Allen and I to return home. He waited in the coach as Sir Harry and I walked the last few steps.

"I know not when we shall meet again," he said, "but I have heartily enjoyed making your acquaintance. I hope whenever you think about your favorite racing champion, you will spare a thought for his owner as well."

I held any giddy thoughts at bay, and struggled for a reply. "And I enjoyed meeting you as well. Take care of Ham for me."

He handed me into the carriage.

"Don't you mean Tony?"

"Never," I said, smiling.

He laughed. Then, shaking Mr. Allen's hand, he promised to be in touch.

The door shut, and the carriage lurched forward.

I turned around in my seat, and watched him through the rear window we moved away. Whether I would miss him more than Ham I could not say for certain. I hoped it would be the former—for a daring idea had entered my head in the last two days.

If Mariah could marry for money, I could certainly marry a man for his stable.


	10. 18 February 1798

I met Isabella one day, several days after Sir Harry's departure.

"Isabella, you have no idea what you have done!" I tore through the last few in the throng of people separating us in the pump room.

Isabella, her gaze somewhat distant, did not appear to hear me.

I finally reached her and twined my arm around hers.

"What is so interesting over there?"

I squinted, and could see nothing of consequence but for the very large clock towering over us all.

"Oh, I am so sorry my dear, you know there was someone I thought was watching me and I did want to make them feel uncomfortable."

"You say the oddest things sometimes," I said.

"Well, I am an odd one, and let no one contradict me. My mother and sisters complete the picture. The oddest of us all is my own brother John, though it is unlikely you should ever understand why."

We began to stroll about the room.

"I cannot imagine what you mean. I am certain I should be able to understand a man's oddity."

She put her hand to her mouth, stifling a giggle. "Yes, dear, but I only meant that you are unlikely to see him enough to understand it."

"That is true. I had even forgotten you had a brother. Though I did recall your mother and sisters, are you very proud of me?" I tilted my head with a half grin.

"Quite proud, my dear creature. But what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this age!"

"Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?"

"Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in Milsom Street just now—very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?"

"Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke. It is what I was going to tell you about—I am so distressed at how slowly I read. And it is no wonder I was so affected learning about the murderous Walter Hungerford. Had I not read Udolpho, I would have taken it all in quite easily. I have gotten to the black veil."

"Have you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?"

"Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me—I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina's skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book. I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world."

"Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."

"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"

"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time."

"Yes, but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?" I said, surprising myself at the vehemence of my feelings. I felt as though a new door had opened, and I was intent on seeing all.

"Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is sewing herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it."

"Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?"

"Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for you are just the kind of girl to be a great favorite with the men."

"Oh, dear!" I said, my color rising. "How can you say so?"

"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly—I am sure he is in love with you."

"I'm sure you're wrong. I am not one to inspire love at first sight."

Isabella laughed. "It is very true, upon my honor, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody's admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you"—speaking more seriously—"your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings."

"But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Sir Harry, for perhaps I may never see him again."

"Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!"

"No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him. I expected some kind of communication by now, even a word passed on by Mr. Allen would have sufficed. But while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina's skeleton behind it."


	11. 18 February 1798 PART 1

We left a few minutes later, and began walking toward Edgar's Buildings on a mission to see Isabella's new hat. Isabella's comments about Miss Andrews had been rather…well, crass. I must have misunderstood the her representation of the matter completely, for I know Isabella would never speak intentionally ill about anyone.

We were prevented from crossing Cheap street by the approach of a gig. The coachman looked to be a poor driver and had selected the worst patch of pavement to cross. His horse looked to be in a misery.

Isabella stopped me as I tried to go around, and said, "Delightful! Mr. Morland and my brother!"

The coachman saw us then, and checked the horse with such violence the poor beast nearly fell back on his haunches. I looked around, confused, my brother nowhere in sight.

The coachman jumped down from his gig, smiled broadly at Isabella, and began to approach. I swallowed whatever negative remark I had been about to make regarding the coachman, the probability of his identity being that of John Thorpe growing higher by the second, and turned another eye out for James.

Around the front of the gig came a black beauty that looked remarkably similar to my own. I looked a second time, realizing that it was Medusa, and that James was in the saddle.

I was shocked at their sudden appearance, and dashed from Isabella's side—just in time to avoid the coachman—then met James after he dismounted.

I threw my arms around him, startling him, as he had not seen me in pursuit. "Umph. Oh, sister is that you? I had a small hope it might have been some other lady, heh, but I am very pleased to see you."

"Oh James, how can you say so, when I am more delighted than words can express? What in heavens are you doing here, and with Medusa too?"

I stroked Medusa's neck, and we gave knowing looks to one another. She knows what I think, and I would swear it if I could.

"Cathy, we came to see you, of course, and what a famous thing it is meeting like this."

"You only call me Cathy when you're feeling guilty."

His eyes stretched over me to something beyond. I turned and nearly collided with Isabella just behind me. At her side was the coachman.

"Oh my dearest creature, I can't tell you what a shock it gave me to see you standing next to that great beast of a thing. Were you quite run over? Mr. Morland, how could you run over my friend, your own sister? Do give him to a servant or something, he makes me quite uncomfortable."

James, never one to be impolite, bore her sharp words with equanimity and a grin. After handing the reigns to their servant, he said, "And a pleasure to see you again too, Miss Thorpe."

"She's my horse, Isabella—I was quite safe. Don't be hard on James."

The coachman, who by this time I knew for certain was none other than John Thorpe, confirmed as much and introduced himself.

"Upon my soul, what a drive we have had this morning," he said, "How long do you think we have been running it from Tetbury, Miss Morland?"

"I do not know the distance."

"It's twenty-three miles, I do believe," said James.

"Three and twenty!" said Thorpe. "Five and twenty if it is an inch."

"I'm afraid not John, the road-book I consulted this morning stated three and twenty."

"I know it must be five and twenty," said Mr. Thorpe, "by the time we have been doing it. It is now half after one. We drove out of the inn-yard at Tetbury as the town clock struck eleven, and I defy any man in England to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in harness; that makes it exactly twenty-five."

"You have lost an hour," said James, "it was only ten o'clock when we came from Tetbury."

"Ten o'clock! It was eleven, upon my soul! I counted every stroke. This brother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland; do but look at my horse; did you ever see an animal so made for speed in your life? Such true blood! Three hours and and a half indeed coming only three and twenty miles! Look at that creature, and suppose it possible if you can."

The servant called out for instructions. Medusa, it was determined, would be dropped off first at the Allen's stable, and then the gig could be driven to the shared lodgings of Mr. Thorpe and James.

Mr. Thorpe then rubbed his forehead with such vehemence that I could not but stare. The shine on his forehead had only increased with his efforts.

"And what do you say, Miss Morland?"

I stood there, dumbfounded for another moment, before I recalled his previous question—a ridiculous one at that, and I felt even more sorry for the horse now that I further knew the mind of its owner. I would have nearly laughed if not for the serious look on Mr. Thorpe's face.

As disinterested as possible, I said, "He does look very hot, to be sure."

"Hot! He had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church. But look at his forehand, look at his loins; only see how he moves. That horse cannot go less than ten miles an hour: tie his legs and he will get on. What do you think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat one, is not it? Well hung; town-built; I have not had it a month. It was built for a Christchurch man, a friend of mine, a very good sort of fellow. He ran it a few weeks, till, I believe, it was convenient to have done with it. I happened just then to be looking out for some light thing of the kind, though I had pretty well determined on a curricle too, but I chanced to meet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was driving into Oxford, last term: 'Ah! Thorpe,' said he, 'do you happen to want such a little thing as this? It is a capital one of the kind, but I am cursed tired of it.' 'Oh! Damn,' said I; 'I am your man; what do you ask?' And how much do you think he did, Miss Morland?"

"I am sure I cannot guess at all."

During the length of Mr. Thorpe's speech, his servant had secured Medusa to the rear, and was now driving off.

He continued, speaking quite rapidly as the gig disappeared down the road. "Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board, lamps, silver molding, all you see complete. The iron-work as good as new, or better. He asked fifty guineas and I closed with him directly, threw down the money, and the carriage was mine."

"And I am sure," I said, "I know so little of such things that I cannot judge whether it was cheap or dear." Nor could I see the carriage to confirm any of the particulars were worth such a sum.

"Neither one nor t'other; I might have got it for less, I dare say; but I hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash."

"That was very good-natured of you," I said.

"Oh! Damn it, when one has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend, I hate to be pitiful."

I was in agony for the rest of the conversation. There were very few things of which I felt confident in my good sense, but horses were at the top of the list. I listened to him go on and on, bragging of what I considered cruelty and neglect. But I must make allowances for his being Isabella's brother, and I will treat him kindly if I die trying.

Two things of interested happened before we parted. First, Mr. Thorpe asked me for the first dance set at the Upper Rooms tonight. I could do nothing but accept, though I thought I might rather not have danced at all than be subjected to more of Mr. Thorpe's conversation.

Secondly, after we left the Thorpes and walked on to the Allen's, my brother and I were finally able to speak privately.

"Well, Catherine, how do you like my friend Thorpe?"

I pursed my lips. Should I respond honestly to my brother? Again I felt myself in unknown waters, and I said, "I…like him very much. He seems very agreeable." Or he is the most unpleasant person I've ever met.

My brother smiled, and said, "He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little of a rattle; but that will recommend him to your sex, I believe. And how do you like the rest of the family?"

I was confident in my next answer. "Very, very much indeed—Isabella particularly."

"I am very glad to hear you say so. She is just the kind of young woman I could wish to see you attached to; she has so much good sense, and is so thoroughly unaffected and amiable. I always wanted you to know her, and she seems very fond of you. She said the highest things in your praise that could possibly be, and the praise of such a girl as Miss Thorpe even you, Catherine," taking my hand with affection, "may be proud of."

"Indeed I am," I said. "I love her exceedingly, and am delighted to find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned anything of her when you wrote to me after your visit there."

"Because I thought I should soon see you myself. I hope you will be a great deal together while you are in Bath. She is a most amiable girl, such a superior understanding! How much she must be admired in such a place as this—is not she?"

"Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mr. Allen thinks her the prettiest girl in Bath."

"I dare say he does; and I do not know any man who is a better judge of beauty than Mr. Allen. I need not ask you whether you are happy here, my dear Catherine. With such a companion and friend as Isabella Thorpe, it would be impossible for you to be otherwise. And the Allens, I am sure, are very kind to you?"

"Yes, very kind. I'm surprised by Mr. Allen's kindness. I'm afraid I am still nervous to be around him sometimes, but he has surpassed every expectation."

"Why should you be nervous around him? He is a great friend of fathers."

We were treading on new ground—I'd been afraid to ever have this conversation with James.

We had stopped, but now moved to the side of the street. A great tree stood over us, though the sun still shone through the bare branches.

"The day you shot his dog. Have you not always been afraid of him since then?"

His eyebrows crinkled, he appeared genuinely perplexed. I began to wonder if my own conclusions had been mistaken—but James had said—

"That was ages ago." He put his head in his hands.

"He was furious. He dragged you off alone with him after that, and when you returned your coat was gone, your sleeve cut and you were bleeding profusely. I know you still bear a scar. I've seen it."

James looked up, a horrified look on his face. "And what did you think happened?"

"I didn't think anything at all at first, not until after you'd been cleaned up and your cut seen to. You told me that Mr. Allen had taught you a lesson you would never forget. Those were your exact words—did he not hurt you somehow, in retribution? I've always believed he gave you that scar." I gestured to his left arm.

James didn't reply at first. His was looking at nothing in particular, and seemed lost in thought.

At length, he spoke.

"I'm so sorry Cathy. I did blame Mr. Allen for that scar, for many years. But it was not his doing. He gave me the worst set down of my life. Father's talks are nothing compared to Mr. Allen. Father is like a babbling brook, but Mr. Allen is the opposite. He didn't touch me, but he did make me feel like I was the scum of the earth.

"He was right, though. I'd taken a gun without permission, and used it without supervision. And I'd killed a helpless animal. Believe me, he had every right to be angry, and I felt every bit of it. I expected to get a sound walloping. But he is a man of great restraint."

His eyes looked red, and he was clearly distraught. I squeezed the hand I had taken up a few moments earlier.

"I'm so sorry James, I didn't know. I wish I hadn't said anything now."

"I'm not. I won't have you thinking Mr. Allen is going to hit you if you do something wrong. That is a great injustice."

He was right. I felt terrible, and my curiosity about his scar all these years—I shuddered to recall all I imagined Mr. Allen capable of. How he came by the scar was not my business.

"Lets go home then James."

He smiled, a piece of home that lifted my spirits. "I've missed you Catherine. I wish we were still young and could spend our days running and looking for frogs."

I knocked him lightly on the head. "You said you'd never tell anyone what we were doing! I'm going to hold you to that promise."

The breeze had warmed up and we sat for a while on the bench, looking at the people passing by.

"Now lets go see the Allen's. I hope you haven't been too severe on Mr. Allen. I'm quite ashamed I gave you the wrong impression so many years ago. It was quite unconsciously done. I hope you have been happy with them, all the same."

"I have been happy. But now you are come it will be more delightful than ever; how good it is of you to come so far on purpose to see me."

He hesitated. "Indeed, Cathy, I love you dearly."

We made it all the way home and were just about to go inside when he stopped me.

"Wait, I nearly forgot. I have a letter for you."

He had just placed it into my hand when the door swung open and Mr. and Mrs. Allen stood before us. In their exclamations over James's sudden arrival, I was able to peek at the seal and letter backing. I hurriedly folded it back up and slipped it into my pocket.

The seal had been unrecognizable, and the script unfamiliar, though the initials HVT were scrawled just above the wax.

I smiled to myself as I went to join the others in the sitting room. It seemed Sir Harry Vane-Tempest had not forgotten me after all.


	12. 18 February 1798 PART 2

I was able to escape for a few moments to my room an hour or so after our return. The letter stored in my pocket had grown heavier and heavier, and I was itching to open it.

I worked the letter open carefully, pealing the seal up slowly. It was a single sheet. My hands trembled and I could feel my heart beat quicken as I unfolded it.

_Miss Morland, Previous engagements prevent me from delivering Medusa to you personally. I regret my absence more than you know. Your good parents send their regards. And, I must say, your brother is one of the more agreeable fellows I've met. Please accept my best wishes for your welfare and happiness. Until we next meet, Sir Harry Vane-Tempest._

It is as I hoped—he does care for me. Why else would he regret his absence? I continued with the rest.

_P.S. Do keep an eye on James whilst he is in Bath. I have the feeling trouble will find him there, and he will need your support._

My heart went cold. What could he mean? Trouble could come in a thousand forms. I turned the letter over, searching for anything further. There was nothing more.

I sat up, unsatisfied. My mind strained as I attempted to consider what peril might await my brother here that he has not already thrown off whilst living in London. Perhaps the water here could make him ill. Perhaps his skill with a horse is not equal to the steep gradients in Bath.

Bah. I could not begin to understand without some additional intelligence. My brother would be at the ball tonight. I shall seek him out.

I folded up the letter. My initial conclusions that Sir Harry cared for me were deeply shaken. To paint a romantic moment in one breath, and a warning in the next seemed incongruous for a love letter. It is possible he was only being gentlemanly in fetching my horse, and that it was all at Mr. Allen's instigation. I have misjudged Mr. Allen deeply, and I ought to consider his role in this matter.

I put the letter in my diary. I would update it later, after the ball. The entries so far were rather dull, far less thrilling than I had imagined when I began it. The most interesting entry by far was composed almost entirely by Mr. Tilney, weeks ago at my second ball. I could not resist recording his words as verbatim as I could recall.

Curious, I flipped back and reread it. I could not help laughing, as it truly was a daring and hilarious speech. As insulted as I had felt at the time, I had to admit he was rather funny.

The date was only ten days prior. Had so little time really passed? I felt as though I'd been up and down enough times for a month at least. But I was satisfied with my situation now, and was able to consider him quite coolly. Perhaps he was not as terrible as I first thought.

But hours later in the Upper Rooms, I disavowed that notion.

The evening had begun promisingly. I was able to speak quietly with James, but he had shockingly little to say regarding his interaction with Sir Harry.

"But how was it organized?" I said, determined to wring a confession from him. "Did Sir Harry just show up begging for my horse, or did he stay a while?"

"What does it matter?" The music of the first dance set started up, he turned to his other side and took my friend's hand. "Come Isabella, let us dance."

"I assure you," Isabella said demurring, "I would not stand up without your dear sister for all the world—for if I did we should certainly be separated the whole evening."

Mr. Thorpe, who had disappeared to the card room to speak to a friend, had yet to return. I was half grateful, half annoyed.

"Well James? Was there nothing said between you?"

James grunted, pinching his lips. "We did spend a short while together, but nothing worth all this fuss. I wonder why you do not write to him and ask."

"I could not possibly. I haven't his direction, foremost, but is it not improper for me to correspond with a man of whom I am unconnected?"

James shrugged. "He wrote to you, I don't know why you couldn't send something back. It seems fine to me."

Isabella whispered something to James and drew him into a secret conversation. Though annoyed to have lost his attention, I let it go. There was still Mr. Allen to speak with, and if Mr. Thorpe didn't return from the card room before the song was over, I would not feel the slightest bit of guilt in going off in search of Mr. Allen.

After a minute or two Isabella turned back and whispered, "My dear creature, I am afraid I must leave you, your brother is so amazingly impatient to begin. I know you will not mind my going away, and I dare say John will be back in a moment, and then you may easily find me out."

I nodded and said good-bye, as graciously as I knew while out of temper. The younger Miss Thorpes soon also be began dancing, and I was left to the mercy of Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs. Allen. The non-appearance of Mr. Thorpe was a point of embarrassment now—for the sole delight I felt in accepting his hand for the first dance set was that I would not be standing awkwardly with the other unpartnered ladies, seen as an object of pity.

There were eyes on me, I was sure. The feeling of being watched had crept upon me gradually since the music began.

I turned my head around, searching the faces of the crowd. I could not see Isabella anymore, I doubted I would be able to find her should her errant brother return. I turned toward the entrance to the Octagon room, expecting Mr. Thorpe to enter there.

To my great shock, I saw not Mr. Thorpe, but Mr. Tilney!

He moved quickly after I saw him, and though I cannot be certain, I think he looked away immediately upon my noticing him.

Color flooded my face. The great dislike I felt upon quitting his company the last time returned with a vengeance, and I felt myself follow his path about the room with my glare. He disappeared into the throng, and I turned back in a huff.

That man! It was a mystery to me why I should feel angered by a man who had proved himself to be a bottom dweller. I tried to take a step back mentally and calm myself, and closed my eyes for a moment as I breathed in deeply.

I care nothing for Mr. Tilney. He is nothing to me. Mr. Tilney is not worthy of my anger. I shall—

"Miss Morland, how delightful to see you again. I hope you are not asleep!"

My eyes flew open. Mr. Tilney was not one yard away. And he was not alone—a beautiful lady in white stood with him. A clear resemblance was there, and I presumed the woman to be his sister.

"Unfortunately not." I muttered under my breath, whilst at the same moment Mrs. Allen said, "I am very happy to see you again, sir, indeed, I was afraid you had left Bath."

Mr. Tilney's eyes rested on mine for moment before looking at Mrs. Allen.

"Thank you, Mrs. Allen, your fears bolster my self-importance but I shall do you credit. I left the very morning after we met as a matter of fact, and have been gone for a week."

"Oh, but it has been a full ten days since we last saw you," said Mrs. Allen, "but who is this lady with you?"

He turned toward the lady. "May I present my sister, Miss Tilney?"

We were all very pleased to meet her, I dare say, Mrs. Allen gushing at the divine qualities of her gown before continuing, "Well, sir, and I dare say you are not sorry to be back again, for it is just the place for young people—and indeed for everybody else too. I tell Mr. Allen, when he talks of being sick of it, that I am sure he should not complain, for it is so very agreeable a place, that it is much better to be here than at home at this dull time of year. I tell him he is quite in luck to be sent here for his health."

"And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged to like the place, from finding it of service to him."

"Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. A neighbor of ours, Dr. Skinner, was here for his health last winter, and came away quite stout."

"That circumstance must give great encouragement."

"Yes, sir—and Dr. Skinner and his family were here three months; so I tell Mr. Allen he must not be in a hurry to get away."

Mr. Tilney and his sister were accompanied by a Mrs. Hughes, who arranged for herself and Miss Tilney to have seats. I turned to Miss Tilney and smiled, ready to engage her in conversation, but I was immediately addressed by Mr. Tilney instead.

"Will you dance this set with me, Miss Morland? I find myself distinctly looking forward to matching our wits once again."

"Matching wits? I remember it as something else entirely. Thank you, but I am already engaged."

He swiveled his head about, as though looking for proof. "Are you certain you are engaged?"

"Quite certain." I looked at him, silently daring him to press me.

He looked to be considering it, sifting through my words, looking for deeper meanings.

Mr. Thorpe chose that moment to make his return. Mr. Tilney gave him the merest glance, before locking eyes with me.

"Miss Morland, upon my soul! I have kept you waiting all this time have I not? Well you need not be in agony a moment longer! I daresay we could squeeze in anywhere we choose. My friend in the card room was telling me about all the animals he keeps, and I'm very nearly sold on the idea of swapping terriers. But you'll not understand how important a good fit of terrier can be to a man, it's as important as his brandy. What a nuisance, my slipper has a smudge."

The corner of Mr. Tilney's mouth turned up. His mocking expression left little doubt as to his opinion on my dance partner. Under other circumstances I would not challenge any pokes to Mr. Thorpe's ridiculous vanity, but I felt it as an indirect insult to myself, and put my guard up a little higher.

Mr. Thorpe finally noticed he was not the object of my attention. He looked between Mr. Tilney and me. I finally looked toward Mr. Thorpe and gave him my most gracious smile. "Let us join Isabella and James in the set, shall we?" I said. I waited not half a moment before walking away from Mr. Tilney, and it was only then that I realized Mr. Thorpe had removed his shoe and hadn't yet replaced it on his foot. I stopped to wait, looking anywhere but at Mr. Tilney.

By the time we finally joined the dance, it was three-quarters over and Isabella was nowhere to be found, certainly in another set. Miss Tilney and her partner soon joined our set, and I was able to get a better look at her.

She was in every aspect what I wished I could be. Isabella was a lovely and stylish, but she lacked something that Miss Tilney had in abundance—innate elegance. As I watched her dance and interact with her partner, the wish that I might know her better grew steadily. Notwithstanding her unfortunate brother, I admired Miss Tilney, as much as one could a stranger. She seemed to be modest and sensible, with a very agreeable manner.

Miss Tilney and I spoke a little during the set, and though we were constantly interrupted by our partners, we managed to share our mutual fondness for Bath and its surroundings. I had hoped she might be as enthusiastic a horsewoman as I, but as she prefers walks, it seems I have yet no partner.

The two dances in the set finally came to a conclusion, and not a moment later my arm was seized by Isabella. I was becoming more accustomed to her oddities, her dramatics no longer upset me in the least—I knew she enjoyed the spotlight and appearing as though wronged by everyone. It was a very strange joke though, and I did grow tired of it.

"At last I have got you. My dearest creature, I have been looking for you this hour. What could induce you to come into this set, when you knew I was in the other? I have been quite wretched without you."

"My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could not even see where you were."

"So I told your brother all the time—but he would not believe me. Do go and see for her, Mr. Morland, said I—but all in vain—he would not stir an inch. Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so immoderately lazy! I have been scolding him to such a degree, my dear Catherine, you would be quite amazed. You know I never stand upon ceremony with such people."

"Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head," I whispered, detaching Isabella from James. "It is Mr. Tilney's sister."

"Oh! Heavens! You don't say so! Let me look at her this moment. What a delightful girl! I never saw anything half so beautiful! But why is that name familiar to me? Oh—! It is not the horrid man you mentioned ages ago? Where has he been all this time?"

"I don't know. We barely spoke. Miss Tilney is quite a nice girl, I should like to know her better. I shall introduce you when she is less engaged."

"But where is her all-conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point him out to me this instant, if he is. I die to see him, so I may give him my most withering glance. Mr. Morland, you are not to listen. We are not talking about you."

"But what is all this whispering about?" said James. "What is going on?"

"There now, I knew how it would be. You men have such restless curiosity! Talk of the curiosity of women, indeed! 'Tis nothing. But be satisfied, for you are not to know anything at all of the matter."

"And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?"

"Well, I declare I never knew anything like you. What can it signify to you, what we are talking of. Perhaps we are talking about you; therefore I would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear something not very agreeable."

I laughed, though they took no notice, continuing their verbal spar. Such antics were vastly entertaining, and I began to feel more easy among friends. Mr. Thorpe was out of sight at the moment, and I had no idea where the Tilney's had gotten to. For all I knew, Mr. Tilney was still chatting with Mrs. Allen, no doubt sharing his tips for starching his cravat. I was grateful I had not confided all my feelings in Isabella, as she had the tendency to make small events large ones. Such an occurrence in this circumstance would certainly cause me embarrassment, and I was happy she seemed to have already forgotten about her desire to meet him.

The rest of the evening was not as delightful. We soon rejoined our party, though Mr. Tilney was not among them. After a few minutes Isabella, James, and Mr. Thorpe walked off and I sunk into a chair beside Mrs. Thorpe.

"Well, my dear," Mrs. Thorpe after turning in my direction, "I hope you have had an agreeable partner."

I forced a cheerful reply. "Very agreeable, madam."

"I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?"

"Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?" Mrs. Allen interrupted, removing the necessity of my replying to Mrs. Thorpe.

"No, where is he?"

"He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about, that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask you, if he met with you."

"I did not see him. Where can he be, I wonder?" I started to look round, but not long was needed before I saw him leading a young lady to the dance. My muscles stiffened.

"Ah! He has got a partner. I wish he had asked you," said Mrs. Allen. And after a short silence, she added, "He is a very agreeable young man."

"Indeed he is, Mrs. Allen," said Mrs. Thorpe, smiling complacently. "I must say it, though I am his mother, that there is not a more agreeable young man in the world."

This inapplicable answer might have been too much for the comprehension of many, and it only took but a moment for me to realize her misunderstanding. Indeed, another moment later, Mrs. Allen leaned over to me and said, in a whisper, "I dare say she thought I was speaking of her son."

"I do believe you are right."

Mr. Tilney and the lady had now joined one of the sets. He finally did see me, before the dance removed him quite from view. A quick nod, and his attention returned to his partner.

I did not understand what that look was meant to convey. All I felt was a great fatigue suddenly, and a sharp desire for the evening to be over.

John Thorpe came to me soon afterwards and said, "Well, Miss Morland, I suppose you and I are to stand up and jig it together again."

I blanched at the thought.

"Oh, no," I said with the barest civility, "I am much obliged to you, but our two dances are over. And, besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more."

"Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with me, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room, my two younger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this half hour."

I found such entertainment distasteful. "No thank you. I wish you a happy evening."

He was clearly annoyed, his face betraying the identical expression Isabella got whenever I went against her wishes. But at last he walked off to quiz his sisters by himself.

I did not expect anything from the rest of the evening, and it was dull indeed. Miss Tilney was part of our party at tea, but did not sit anywhere near me, and James and Isabella were so much engaged in conversing together that the latter had no leisure to bestow more on this friend than one smile, one squeeze, and one "dearest Catherine."

Vexed and disappointed, I was even angry Mr. Tilney did not seek me out again, though I must attribute that reaction to my listless mood, for I did not wish for his company. My mother often scolded me when I grew this way. Thank heaven she was nowhere near, and Mrs. Allen had no problem allowing me to spend the rest of the evening looking out the window, though she did at length grow tired of it and accepted my entreaties to depart.


	13. 19-20 February 1798

The sleep that found me upon my pillow that night was a sound one and I awoke feeling much better. My first thought was of Medusa, and I dressed quickly and went down to see her. I did not have permission from the Allen's to go out riding alone, but I was determined to get it.

My appeals were met with a wall.

We sat at the breakfast table.

"Is there no servant that may accompany me?"

"I'm afraid we did not bring a groom with us my dear. There may be someone on staff at the stable, but I do not feel comfortable as I am not acquainted with them. And I cannot be without my maid, nor Mr. Allen his valet. Can you not ask James to accompany you?"

"I would but Mr. Thorpe may wish to accompany us." The thought rankled. "I prefer…a smaller group."

Mrs. Thorpe nodded her understanding. "I do understand, there are many times I have said the same when attempting to engage with a shop owner."

I sighed, then reached for a red apple from the fruit bowl, dropping it discreetly into my pocket. I hoped the gift would soften the blow when I went to visit Medusa after breakfast. A little bribery can go a long way. It seemed I would not be riding her anytime soon.

Aside from taking Medusa on a long ride, the next desire of my heart was to get acquainted further with Miss Tilney. To that end, when we entered the pump room the next day, I surveyed the room looking for her, but to no avail.

Mr. Allen had come with us, and after taking his glass of water, joined a group of gentleman. I wished I might seek his company as the opportunity to speak with him had not arisen, but I had missed yet another chance.

The Thorpe ladies entered, accompanied by my brother, and Mrs. Allen and I joined them. I took my usual place beside Isabella, but found little opportunity to speak with her. My brother, since his arrival, consistently encompassed Isabella's conversation and attention.

Growing bored quickly, I searched the room for amusement elsewhere. My eyes a lit on the connecting doors to Meyler &amp; Sons circulation library, and I had the sudden desire to go and look for a new book. Mrs. Allen excused me, and I began hurrying toward it.

Halfway there, my path nearly collided with Miss Tilney herself, who was accompanied by Mrs. Hughes.

"Oh! Miss Tilney, you are the very lady I had hoped to meet this morning. I have so longed to deepen our acquaintance."

Miss Tilney smiled warmly, and I felt my shoulders ease out their tension. "I too am glad to see you this morning Miss Morland. Though I looked for you yesterday as well—you have made me wait such a long time and I hoped you might be here today."

A bloom of warmth began in my chest, and I laughed in delight. "It was my greatest wish to come here yesterday, but I was obliged to go out on a carriage ride with the Thorpes and my brother."

"Obliged to go? But was it not divine? I have seen many riding through the city." She turned her head back toward the street, as though hoping someone might drive by.

"I cannot argue that it was divine in part—it was my first time in an open carriage."

Miss Tilney was all politeness, though a touch reserved. After a few common exchanges, my mind was blank at anything remotely interesting to talk about. Mrs. Hughes looked to have seen an acquaintance, and just as she was leaning over to take Miss Tilney away, I burst out with, "How well your brother dances!"

She was taken aback, surprise etched into her features. I silently cursed my stupidity in mentioning her brother to her, I had taken great care to avoid any discussion of him. Why could I have not thought of anything else to say?

But I smiled, determined to make the most of it. Mrs. Hughes had gone away without Miss Tilney after all.

"Henry?" She said, smiling. "Yes, he does dance very well."

"He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down," I said. "But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe."

Miss Tilney nodded.

"You cannot think," I continued after a moment's silence—and wishing I could shut myself into a closet, "how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away."

"When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us."

"That never occurred to me. And of course, not seeing him anywhere, Mrs. Allen thought he must be gone." I paused, determined to change the subject, then said the next thing that came into my head. "Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?"

I wanted to kick myself.

"Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes," she said, a slight smile forming on the side of her mouth.

"I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" I said.

"Not very." Miss Tilney looked once again back toward the street entrance. I hoped she was not looking for her brother.

"He never comes to the pump room, I suppose?"

"Yes, sometimes, but he has ridden out this morning with my father."

"I am terribly jealous. Mrs. Allen has forbidden me to go unless I find a suitable riding companion."

Mrs. Hughes rejoined us, taking Miss Tilney's arm in preparation to depart.

"I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," I said. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?"

"Perhaps we—Yes, I think we certainly shall."

"I am glad of it, for we shall all be there."

"Until tomorrow then." Her smile had grown throughout our conversation, and when she said farewell, I was certain there was some joke that had vastly amused her.

At least I need not worry that she thinks me partial to her brother. Our mutual behavior last night, so full of animosity, could not possibly cloud her judgment to the degree necessary for her to think me in his thrall.

It was simply inconceivable.


	14. 21 February 1798

I was wrong. Miss Tilney had indeed mistaken my words.

She waved at me from across the room. It was the night of the Cotillion ball, and I had arrived very pleased to be unengaged to Mr. Thorpe.

She caught my eye once again, with a warm smile. Her brother at her arm in a tête-à-tête, his face showed a slew of baffled expressions raging from outright shock, to an amused mocking smile. I know they were speaking of me, for the Mr. Tilney looked straight at me after their whispered exchange, offering the most maddening grin yet. I turned away and very nearly stomped out the door, but I saw Mr. Thorpe circling from the corner of the room and I knew any fate was better than to be paired with him once again. I crowded in toward Mrs. Allen as close as I could. She wore another plumage filled hat, and I wished for once it might have been even more outlandish, as what I needed most of all at that moment was cover.

I started violently when a hand gripped my arm. Fearing the worst, I turned and found it was only Isabella, her brother nowhere in sight.

"Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine," she whispered, "but I am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment."

I strained to see over the crowd, and was able to see the top of Mr. Thorpe's head, bobbing closer and closer. Isabella and James walked off, leaving me an open target, Mr. Thorpe now quite visible. He was making his way straight for me. I turned toward Mrs. Allen, who appeared deep in conversation with Mrs. Thorpe.

"Oh Mrs. Allen," I said, interrupting, "I feel a head—"

"Hello again, Mrs. Allen, Mrs. Thorpe," said Mr. Tilney. I turned to face him. That was twice he had snuck upon me unawares. "Miss Morland," he said, bowing slightly.

I greeted him with a return curtsy. "Mr. Tilney," I said.

"Would you care to dance?"

"I would. Thank you." I answered him truly, and for the first time since the night we met, I felt grateful for his company.

He held out his gloved hand, the cut of his evening coat shifting open to reveal a golden hued waistcoat. The gold thread glinted under the glow of the candelabras above us bringing out the bronze in his hair. It was…rather striking.

I placed my own hand in his, and he pulled me away from the others not a moment before Mr. Thorpe reached them.

We walked together in a quiet camaraderie until joining one of the sets of a country dance. Watching each other silently as we waited for the dance to begin, I saw his eyes move behind me.

John Thorpe came beside me, inserting himself into the space meant to be occupied only by my partner and myself. "Heyday, Miss Morland!" he said, "What is the meaning of this? I thought you and I were to dance together."

My face heated, ashamed that Mr. Thorpe should address me so in front of Mr. Tilney. "I wonder you should think so," I said pointedly, "for you never asked me."

"That is a good one, by Jove! I asked you as soon as I came into the room, and I was just going to ask you again, but when I turned round, you were gone! This is a cursed shabby trick! I only came for the sake of dancing with you, and I firmly believe you were engaged to me ever since Monday. Yes, I remember, I asked you while you were waiting in the lobby for your cloak. And here have I been telling all my acquaintance that I was going to dance with the prettiest girl in the room, and when they see you standing up with somebody else, they will quiz me famously."

I would have blushed harder had Mr. Tilney been looking at me, but he was glaring at Mr. Thorpe. It was the height of rudeness for Mr. Thorpe to be speaking to me at such a time, and I felt it keenly, though I was not sure how to be rid of him without causing a scene.

"Oh, no," I said, "they will never think of me, after such a description as that."

"By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room for blockheads. What chap have you there?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but Mr. Tilney stepped forward, forcing Mr. Thorpe to acknowledge his presence.

"It's Tilney, if you will, and I would beg your departure from my partner's side. She is engaged to me for the evening, and I do not consider your presence a desirable communion."

I kept my eyes on Mr. Tilney, but heard Mr. Thorpe's churlish response and exit.

"I can't like that man," he said. "I've observed him in town since arriving, and I must say when I saw him coming toward you, he thought to make you dance with me whether you wished to or no. I wouldn't wish any woman to be cornered with him, let alone one who clearly loathes his company."

"I am quite transparent, aren't I. My attempts to be mysterious as Isabella advises me have failed. I'm afraid every thought I have is quite apparent to anyone."

"Not anyone, perhaps. But to one who was closely observing you, your feelings are indeed clear."

I thought again at what Miss Tilney had been saying to him, and felt my face heat. I was saved by reply as the movements of the dance began, and I turned my attention to it.

"Indeed," said Mr. Tilney, "he has no business to withdraw the attention of my partner from me. As partners, we have entered into a contract of mutual agreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness belongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten themselves on the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both. And those men who do not choose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the partners or wives of their neighbors."

I looked at him skeptically, one eyebrow raising high. "But they are such very different things—"

"—That you think they cannot be compared together," said Mr. Tilney.

"To be sure not. People that marry can never part ways, but must go and keep house together. People that dance need only stand opposite each other in a long room for half an hour."

"And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing." He looked up toward the ceiling, mocking hurt feelings. "Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance is not striking. But I think I could place them in such a view. You will allow that in both, man has the advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both, it is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of each. And that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each other till the moment of its dissolution. That it is their duty, each to endeavor to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbors, or fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else. You will allow all this?"

"Yes, to be sure, as you state it, though I am not sure I like the notion of belonging exclusively to a dance partner. And what of the power of refusal? In a dance, I have no power at all to refuse, unless I choose to sit out the rest of the evening or commit a dreadful faux pas that would no doubt cause serious offense to all connected with me. They are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same light, nor think the same duties belong to them."

"Do you suppose there is less offense caused when you refuse a man his offer of marriage?"

I misstepped, and began to lose my balance. Mr. Tilney reached out to steady me, gripping my arm and waist with each hand.

"Thank you," I whispered, overcome with embarrassment. Were it not for his quick reflexes, I would have fallen. He slowly withdrew his hands and we began again, having fallen a moment behind in the pattern.

He gave me a moment to recover before his eyes found mine again, and I found the courage to reply.

"An offer of marriage is given in private. Thus the refusal has not the same repercussions."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Nothing is ever private. Unless a perfect stranger proposes to you whilst you are out on a solitary walk, someone will suspect something momentous has occurred, and then when nothing comes of it there will be questions, inevitably."

"Perhaps," I said, unwilling to surrender the argument.

He shrugged his brows, as though willing to let it lie for the moment.

"But, let us return to the previous issue. In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man is supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make the home agreeable to the man. He is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the lavender water. That, I suppose, was the difference of duties which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison."

I nodded solemnly, my brows pushed together in a mocking pose. "Of a certainty, those differences in duties struck me far deeper than any I have already mentioned. I do indeed expect your compliance in a dance. Perhaps I will ask you to fetch me some lemonade seven or eight times this evening. And then you must flatter me, of course, and I'm sure given enough time I shall think of a hundred tasks perfectly suited for you. Oh dear—I must admit that I've quite forgotten my fan this evening, and had I known you wished to borrow some lavender water I would have brought some with me." His face crinkled on one side, as he struggled to restrain his ever growing smile. "Perhaps next time you will send a note in advance, and I shall bring such accouterments and bobbles as you require."

His lips began to part, as though to speak, but I hurriedly went on saying, "Oh, and thank you for putting me so at ease. It is of great comfort to know the only thing my husband shall expect from me is to smile. You have lifted a weight from my shoulders."

"But do not forget, you must also make his home agreeable."

"Oh yes, that as well. I am indebted to you for your counsel."

He remained straight-faced, though his eyes conveyed the laughter he was attempting to conceal.

"I am quite at a loss," he said. "One thing, however, I must observe. This disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return during our set, or if any other gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?"

"Certainly not, I do the best I can. Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother's, that if he speaks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with."

"And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!"

"Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them. And, besides, I do not want to talk to anybody during our dance. And I don't think it likely Mr. Thorpe will return after you…sent him away."

Hie smiled, then puffed out his chest. "Now you have given me a security worth having, and I shall proceed with courage."

I smiled in return, baffled at the turn the evening had taken. Here was a man I thought—no, that I knew, was both too witty and clever, with the tendency to insult ones partner. I had assumed his insult a personal one, but his behavior was confusing me. Greatly. He acted as though I was not only a pleasant partner, but one he genuinely enjoyed conversing with.

"Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honor of making the inquiry before?" he said.

"Yes, quite—more so, indeed."

"More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks."

"I do not think I should be tired if I were to stay here six months."

"Bath," he said, "compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough. But beyond that, it is the most tiresome place in the world. You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to stay no longer."

"Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home. For here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there. And I have been here only three weeks, after all."

"You are not fond of the country?"

"I am quite fond of it, actually. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another."

"But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country."

"Do I?"

"Do you not?"

"I do not believe there is much difference."

"Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long."

"And so I am at home—only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there. But here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."

Mr. Tilney threw his head up and laughed at the ceiling, a beat of hilarity that I would never have expected.

"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen! What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here."

"Yes, that is true," I said, unable to contain a grin spreading over my face, "I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again—I do like it so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be too happy! James's coming—my eldest brother—is quite delightful. Who can ever be tired of Bath?"

"Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath—and the honest relish of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them."

"Is it past with you too? Do you find Bath a bore?"

He paused before replying, though whether to catch his breath or to search for the right answer I knew not. He said finally, with a half smile, "Not at the moment."

The dance grew very lively then, and I was too short of breath to both speak and dance. When we reached the bottom of the set, we both needed to catch our breath and did not resume speaking immediately.

Within a row of onlookers stood not far behind where Mr. Tilney stood, I became aware of a gentleman who appeared to be earnestly regarding me. He was handsome to be sure, more so than any gentleman I had thus met. The hair around his temples was gray, and I thought him to be near my father's age. He had a commanding presence, and when he moved toward us, and whispered something to Mr. Tilney, who responded in kind, I found my face to be quite warm.

After the whispering was concluded, the older gentleman retreated, though his eye remained fixed upon me. Was something in my appearance amiss? I grew nervous, checking my clothing by peering down as slyly as I could, touching my hair, shifting my shoulders about to make sure everything was in place. I was debating whether to ask Mr. Tilney if something was awry.

My blush remained, stubbornly, though I hoped it might be attributed to the warmth of the room, and the exertions of the dance, should anyone remark on it. No sooner had the gentleman gone out of earshot, Mr. Tilney lost no time in doing so.

"You look overheated, Miss Morland. Should we sit out the next of the set?"

"Not at all. That man is staring at me quite violently. I declare he must think my dress perfectly hideous."

Another laugh. "It is only General Tilney, my father. He was desirous to know your identity. Don't mind him. He can be rather…intense, at times."

I responded with a bland, "oh," and the next moment the first dance was over, and Mr. Tilney had dragged me away from his father's eye and toward the refreshments. After fetching me a glass of lemonade, I drank it down in one long swallow.

"Another?" he asked.

I nodded, and he fetched a second glass from the table. I drank that one more slowly, but still finished it at record speed.

"It'll be a miracle if I don't get the hiccups. Thank you, Mr. Tilney, I feel much refreshed."

He watched me set down the cup. "Do you know what my sister was telling me, earlier this evening?"

I breathed in, sharply, taken aback at his question. I knew exactly what she had been saying.

I attempted to stall. "Oh, but the next dance is about to begin! Do, let us hurry."

He made no move to leave the refreshment table. I resigned myself to the inevitable embarrassment that lay ahead. "The dance will still be there if we delay a moment. What she said was quite surprising."

"—I assure you she is quite mistaken."

He raised his eyebrows. "Mistaken? She seemed certain."

I let out the breath I had been holding. "I believe I may have given your sister a false impression yesterday. Quite inadvertently. She kept looking toward the door, and I thought she was looking for you, so I asked if you were coming to the pump room."

He looked at me closely as I spoke, but I seemed without a clue to what I was talking about.

"Yes, she spoke of that conversation. And she said you have a very fine horse that your brother brought round for you."

"Oh!" I said, relieved at the turn in conversation. Perhaps Miss Tilney had not told her brother anything objectionable after all. "Yes, I do have a horse, a very lively one. I simply adore her. How sad Miss Tilney does not care for riding. I could not live without it."

"I was told you own not a horse, but a veritable beast."

"And how would she know such a thing? Miss Tilney has not seen her."

"I might have overheard Miss Thorpe speaking to your brother about it."

"Oh," I said, growing confused. I said impulsively, "Then what was the terribly interesting thing Miss Tilney said to you?"

"That you're in love with me, of course."

His words felt as a blow. In shock, my mind went blank for a handful of moments before I could process his accusation. I felt anger drench my features, and my mouth closed in tight.

His smile was mocking and condescending.

"A gentleman would never say such a thing," I said. "Excuse me, I feel a sudden desire to dance with Mr. Thorpe after all."

I turned away, but Mr. Tilney was there again in my path.

He shook his head, "Tsk, tsk. Always responding in anger. It was the same the night we met. There is something you must understand about me, Miss Morland."

"I do not wish to understand anything about you. Now goodbye."

I tried again to escape, but was again closed in by Mr. Tilney's person.

"You would not abandon me mid-set for another man. Think of the scandal! You had much better sit out the rest of the dance." He was grinning quite broadly now. I wanted to kick him, hit him, anything I could do. Had we been alone, I would have had no compunction or restraint.

I shoved my way past him, anxious to get away. But his hand grasped my arm, and turned me back to him. The crush of people made it impossible for anyone to see the tension between us.

"Now listen here," he said, with his face close to mine. "My sister thinks you are in love with me. I know she could not be more wrong. I thought it would give you a good laugh, but you don't seem to laugh about anything, Catherine Morland. You're either angry, embarrassed, or some combination of the two. I know I am a bit of a heel, but I do mean well, and I would never intentionally shame a lady."

He took a breath, and looked away before saying, "I had no idea you thought so low of me. I see your assumptions of my character are not at all what I believed—indeed, your actions make no sense at all. I had thought to offer myself as a riding escort for you, but now I know your true feelings, I would not wish you to feel obligated to be in my company. Now let us go and rejoin the dance. It looks to be very short and lively, and I will not say another word."

I ceased my struggle to pull away, stunned as I was by his words. I desperately wanted to stay angry with him. Tears threatened, and I felt wretched, hot, and quite miserable.

His hand withdrew from my arm, and I felt the cool air rush over the newly bared spot. I stared at his cravat, gloomily contemplating my options. His proposal was the simplest. I didn't relish explaining to Mrs. Allen why I was suddenly too tired to dance when the first set was barely half over.

I nodded my assent.

Within moments, we found ourselves thrust into a lively country dance, with our attention much divided from one another.

We parted with the barest acknowledgments. He tipped his head to me, and I nodded in return. I did choose to sit out the remaining dances, and managed to avoid being seated near Mr. Tilney at tea. I was worrying with each moment that Mr. Thorpe would come for me again, but he seemed to have found a more willing partner. After tea, I saw Mr. Tilney slip into the card room.

One less person to hide from.

The evening dragged by. I watched Miss Tilney enjoying herself, and I began to wonder how the evening might have turned out differently. Was I overly defensive at a man thinking me in love with him? How was I to know it was a joke? Such matters were serious ones to me. What was more, I felt he had deliberately led me to believe she had said nothing of the kind, only to throw it in my face when I least expected it. Did he really think I thought well of him? The tangle made my head ache, but I knew I must set Miss Tilney straight on the matter. I could not have her thinking me in love with her brother.

I had barely resolved to go and find her when I saw them both descending upon me.

"Why, Miss Morland," said Miss Tilney, "you are all alone! You poor thing. And not even Mrs. Allen to keep you company?" Her brother remained a few yards distant, though within earshot. He was looking earnestly at a painting hung on the wall near us.

Mrs. Allen had spent much of the evening roaming the room with Mrs. Thorpe, repeating hourly, "I know you don't mind, dear."

"She has gone to fetch Mr. Allen from the card room," I said.

Miss Tilney sat down beside me. "Well. Henry and I have thought up a wonderful diversion. We thought to take a long country walk sometime in the next few days and visit all our favorite spots. It would be our pleasure to have you join us. I know how fond you are of the country. And it would give us a chance to know each other better, away from the pump room and lookers-on. Do say you will come!"

I hesitated. My eyes went to his before I could think better of it. He had been watching me throughout. I could not imagine he wished me me to join their private outing.

"Oh, well, that does sound lovely, but I wouldn't—"

Mr. Tilney took three long strides toward us. "Do say you will come, Miss Morland. My sister greatly desires to know you better."

The intent look in his eyes made me realize how wrong I had been before—and how much I had misjudged him. If he did not already, he must despise me now, but was putting his sister's wishes before his own.

"Thank you," I said to Miss Tilney. "I have never been on a country walk here. I shall like it beyond anything in the world."

We agreed upon the very next day.


	15. 22 February 1798

The rain began mid-morning and did not let up. The clock chimed quarter to twelve. Mr. and Miss Tilney were to come for me at noon, but with such rains, I knew they would not venture out.

"It was such a nice-looking morning," I said, peering out the window, "I felt so convinced it would be dry." Mrs. Allen listened with one ear, whilst she was trying her hand at making up a hat.

"Anybody would have thought so indeed." She flinched, poking herself with a needle. "There will be very few people in the pump-room if it continues this way. I hope Mr. Allen will put on his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had rather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder he should dislike it, it must be so comfortable."

"Quite comfortable. Mr. Allen is mad to think otherwise."

Mrs. Allen stopped squinting at the hat, and looked at me. "When have you ever worn a man's greatcoat?"

I bit my lip. I had a greatcoat in my closet at home, primarily used when I had to go look for Medusa on rainy nights.

"I regularly wear one to bed. Much softer than a nightgown, I can assure you."

Her expression, both horrific and comical, made me laugh. "Oh, I'm just teasing you, Mrs. Allen."

She gave me a disdainful look. "A woman my age does not like such teasing. The shock may send me to an early grave."

"What nonsense. You are young yet."

A disgraceful snort was all the reply I received.

Mrs. Allen had become a much more delightful companion than I could have anticipated. Her first choices of discussion topics were always the same. First, dress and accessories. Second, preserving dress and accessories. Third, expressing outrage when one does not take necessary precautions of preserving. But, when caught off topic, she was vastly amusing, and was devilish fun to bother. As much as I enjoyed it, however, such moments were rare.

The clock chimed twelve.

"You will not be able to go, my dear."

And perhaps that was for the best. Mr. Tilney would no doubt be relieved. I would miss seeing Miss Tilney, but felt no relief to avoid her brother. His words last night had shaken me, and I felt ashamed at myself.

Half and hour later, I'd become immersed in Udolpho. Mrs. Allen had long left me to my own entertainments, though I'd been aware enough of my surroundings to know she was no longer in the room. I was almost finished. The black veil had proved less thrilling than I'd hoped. The figure behind it, which had caused such a stir at first, turned out to be made from wax. I felt a little duped by it, and Emily was a little too quick to judge. Her reaction had been one of a fear-clouded mind though, so I had forgiven her folly.

I was startled by the bang of the front door. My eyes sought the window, and the rain had fully stopped! The time was not so late that the Tilney's might still come by—this must be them! I hastily closed my book and straighted my dress, wrinkled from the settee. I nervously shook my skirts, uncertain whether I should go out to the parlor or wait for them to come into the sitting room. What would the Tilney's do were I the one at their house? My mind grew more frazzled as I was unable to recall what was socially acceptable.

I had almost made up my mind to go out, when the door to the sitting room was unceremoniously thrown open and none other than Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe came in, soon followed by Mrs. Allen.

Mr. Thorpe, the moment the door was thrown open, called out, "Make haste! Make haste! Put on your hat this moment—there is no time to be lost—we are going to Bristol!"

"To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? I cannot go in any case, because I am already engaged; I expect some friends every moment."

This caused an uproar. Isabella and my brother were soon upon me, begging me to join in their scheme, which was apparently their idea.

"My sweetest Catherine, is not this delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me for the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same instant, and we should have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and quiet! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there. And, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston."

"I doubt our being able to do so much," said Morland.

"You croaking fellow!" cried Thorpe. "We shall be able to do ten times more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can hear of. But here your sister says she will not go."

"Blaize Castle!" cried Catherine. "Is that the same as Farleigh Hungerford?" The story Sir Harry had related was one I very much wished to corroborate with a visit.

"Er, oh, yes! The finest place in England—worth going fifty miles at any time to see."

"What, is it really a castle, an old castle?"

"The oldest in the kingdom," he said, as he leaned against the mantle.

"But is it like what one reads of? I long to see a castle such as one I've read in Udolpho for instance, or—"

"Exactly—the very same."

"But now really—are there towers and long galleries?"

"By dozens."

I felt myself being drawn in with every detail. It must be just as I imagined it—what luck that Mr. Thorpe should have visited Farleigh Castle. As much as I disliked the fellow, I knew he had to have some redeeming quality.

"Then I should like to see it," I said, "but I cannot go today—I cannot go. Why not tomorrow?"

"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?" said Isabella.

"I cannot go, because"—looking down as I spoke, fearful of Isabella's smile—"I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon."

"Not they indeed," said Mr. Thorpe, "for, as we turned into Broad Street, I saw them—does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?"

"I do not know indeed."

"Yes, I know he does. I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced with last night, are not you?"

"Yes."

"Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a smart-looking girl."

I sat down upon the settee, surprised. "Did you indeed? I suppose it must be Miss Tilney with him."

"Did upon my soul. I knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got some very pretty cattle too."

"It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a walk." Unless Mr. Tilney was having regrets.

"And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere."

Isabella corroborated it. "My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea of the dirt. Come, you must go—you cannot refuse going now."

I could not discount the strange behavior of the Tilney's. Why had there been no note sent to cancel our outing? I looked into the fire, hoping to center my thoughts in its steady flame.

"I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?"

"Yes, yes, every hole and corner."

"But then," the thought struck me, "if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dryer, and call by and by?"

"Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were going as far as Wick Rocks."

"Then I will go, I suppose, if Mrs. Allen thinks it right." I looked over at her. "Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?"

"Just as you please, my dear."

"Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go," was the general cry. Mrs. Allen was not inattentive to it: "Well, my dear," said she, "suppose you go."

So I went.


	16. 22 February 1798 PART 2

As it would turn out, Thorpe has no redeeming qualities.

We had not even reached the bridge—barely two blocks from my lodgings—before I saw Mr. and Miss Tilney strolling up Pulteney street. And they were looking right at me and Mr. Thorpe.

Were it not for the brisk wind in my face, I would have been flaming red. For, as I knew it must look to them, I had unabashedly broken our engagement in the most rude manner possible. I blanched at what Mr. Tilney must be thinking, his opinion of me sinking further still.

Mr. Thorpe had no sooner seen them than he stretched out his whip, and the horses instantly responded with greater speed.

"Stop!" I cried, "Stop, Mr. Thorpe! It is Miss Tilney! How could you tell me they were gone?"

He laughed, pushing the horses as quickly as he could through the marketplace and beyond, never slowing. I looked down at the pavement below us just as the carriage went over an uneven area. I lost my balance and gripped the seat as the momentary dizziness passed. I wished I might jump out and run back to the Tilney's, but I was not fool enough to jump down from a rushing carriage on a busy thoroughfare.

Mr. Thorpe tried to muster a defense, telling me that he been certain it was Mr. Tilney, and there must be a look-a-like running about.

My brother was too far behind for me to enlist his aid, so I attempted another tactic.

"Give me the reins! I'll take us back. You're clearly unused to driving at these speeds, we're going to wreck and break our necks!"

The venom in his look told it had been the wrong thing to say.

He flushed. He kept his eyes on the road, but spoke angrily, "I wouldn't give you the reins unless I truly was dead, for you'd kill us for certain!"

"My father taught me to drive," I said as kindly as I could. "Perhaps you can let me try and offer any suggestions for improvement." It was a good thing he was not looking my way, for if my forced smile looked as painful as it felt then he'd know I wasn't sincere.

"Whatever fancies you have in that brain of yours, I can assure you that I care far too much for your safety to allow you to take such a risk. A woman driving my carriage?" He laughed. "I'd be a laughing stock, and women are terrible drivers, take my word for it."

I briefly considered stealing the reins, but I would have to lean over him and be far too close to him for me to consider that option. Distance from him was essential.

"Stop the carriage, I beg you. I wish to return home." I spoke calmly, but I was shaking in anger. "I had rather, ten thousand times rather, get out now and walk back to them, than spend the afternoon with you. It is clear to me that you never did see the Tilney's, and would make up any lie you could to get me to go on this trip."

"As I said before, I've never seen two men so alike. Now that we're on our way, you may as well enjoy yourself." His unconcern for my feelings was so evident that I was at a loss.

The carriage pushed on at breakneck speed, and I truly did fear for my life at his hands. I recalled the moment I first saw him driving this same carriage, and the pity I felt for his horse. Now I pitied myself more.

"I will take no pleasure at all in this outing. Your methods of gaining a companion are quite unscrupulous. How can I enjoy myself when I am held prisoner?"

"Ha! Women are so amusing sometimes. I'm glad you decided to come along."

I stared at his profile, hating him intently. The grin that he wore most of the time took on a sinister aspect as we through a shady grove of trees, the city far behind. I could not even see my brother's carriage, so far behind he was.

Never had I felt more helpless, bound on several fronts. As time passed and my brother did not catch up, I grew increasingly uncomfortable. Mr. Thorpe had attempted some conversation, but my monosyllabic responses made it difficult for him to sustain anything between us.

The sun was no longer overhead, beginning its arc into the west. It was a testament to the disorder of my mind that I had not earlier discerned the direction we were traveling. I thought back to what Sir Harry had said about the castle—in which direction did it lie? South. I was sure of it. And we were headed west.

I took a moment to process the implications. Could Mr. Thorpe have accidentally taken me on the wrong road? That seemed beyond even his imbecility. I had read enough novels of late to have plenty of fodder to put me out of my wits. Alone with a man of dubious character, there were any number of outcomes. Many of them were only pertinent for a wealthy heroine, who might be forced into marriage or held for ransom. My portion was far too small for such schemes. But I considered, did Mr. Thorpe think he might carry me off to Gretna Green? Or, was he so enamored with me that he might try and compromise me in some way, forcing me to marry him?

I sighed. What a fool I was, imagining myself as a gothic heroine. I was in no danger. And I couldn't help but laugh at myself!

We were not traveling near as quickly now, and Mr. Thorpe managed a glance in my direction. "Something amuses you, Miss Morland?"

I could take over this carriage at any time I wished, I was certain. And with Scotland several hundred miles away, I could do nothing but laugh at the direction my mind had taken.

"Nothing at all, I'm sure. Except I've finally puzzled something together."

He raised his bushy brows. "I'm not one for puzzling."

"We're not going to Farleigh Castle," I said. "Blaize is not another name for Farleigh, is it?"

"Well they're both Castles, aren't they? I thought one was as good as the next."

"Sometimes," I said to his profile, his posture rigid with tension. I looked away, then said quietly to myself, "But not today."

We continued the journey with little conversation. At length, James and Isabella came into view, finally having caught up to us, though they stayed back too far for talk. My temper quiet at last, I was content to enjoy the scenery. Whatever repercussions were waiting for me in Bath, I would face them later. I thought Miss Tilney would understand once I explained—that is, unless her ear was poisoned against me by her brother. I hoped he would give me a fair hearing, but with our prior head-butting, I was not confident on that point.

And so, disappointments set aside, I began to look forward to our arrival at Blaize Castle. Though I would never say so to Mr. Thorpe, I was still interested in seeing it. Indeed, I would have jumped at the chance to go, had it been less underhanded.

The sound of the other carriage grew louder, and my brother called out to Thorpe to hold up. Thorpe pulled up, halting.

"We had better go back, Thorpe," said my brother, "it is too late to go on today, your sister thinks so as well as I. We have been exactly an hour coming from Pulteney Street, very little more than seven miles; and, I suppose, we have at least eight more to go. It will never do. We set out a great deal too late. We had much better put it off till another day, and turn round."

I scrutinized Thorpe as he replied rather angrily, "it is all one to me," and instantly turned his horse. He was quite put out by it all, it would appear.

He was not the only one. I felt the leash on my temper snap, again. "You might have given a little more forethought to the length of the drive when you pressed me into this outing. But then, I should have expected it after your pretentious swaggering when you first arrived in Bath, insisting you'd made the trip so quickly."

His voice rose in his defense, "if your brother had not got such a damned beast to drive, we might have done it very well. My horse would have trotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded jade's pace. Morland is a fool for not keeping a horse and gig of his own."

"No, he is not. I am sure he could not afford it."

"And why cannot he afford it?"

"Because he has not money enough."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Nobody's, that I know of."

Thorpe then said something in the loud, incoherent way to which he had often recourse, about its being a damned thing to be miserly; and that if people who rolled in money could not afford things, he did not know who could—which I was at a loss to understand. Were my brother any less honest, I might have questioned the statement, but I knew James was as wont to misrepresent himself to others as I.

We returned to Pulteney Street without speaking another twenty words, much to my relief.

As I entered the house, Felton told me that a gentleman and lady had called and inquired for me a few minutes after setting off. That, when told I was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had asked whether any message had been left for her, and on his negation, she had felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went away. Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, I walked slowly upstairs. At the head of them I was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hearing the reason of their speedy return, said, "I am glad your brother had so much sense. I am glad you are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme."

At his words, the wall I'd erected after Mr. Thorpe's betrayal came crashing down. My eyes began to swell with tears, and several slid down my face. "My dear," said Mr. Allen, "what can be the matter?"

I rushed into his arms, desperately needing his consolation. My tears fell onto his coat. "Oh, what a fool I have been. I did not know—the common sense I have at home has not followed yet to Bath. I have made so many blunders and embarrassed us all over and over again. You do not know the half of it." My thoughts went to my fear of Mr. Allen, and I cried even harder at the silliness that had cost me years of his friendship.

"Nay, I have not felt embarrassed one bit. No one saw you on the horse after all, and anything else that may have happened has not come to my ears. Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe have got a fun scheme for you all this evening, there is to be a little card party. Young people always enjoy cards, do they not?" He looked at me so hopefully, I could not let him down and beg to stay home, as I had been on the point of doing. I did resolve not to be drawn into any further schemes engineered by Mr. Thorpe.

That evening, I was out of spirits and begged off most of the play. I spent the evening reading on the couch, or rather, pretending to read, as I was still feeling too overset to focus on whatever book it was I held—I had not even read the spine, but only selected one from the at random from Mrs. Thorpe's sitting room.

I overheard many a conversation, but primarily all that passed between Isabella and James. Isabella's flirting was unmistakable, and I knew my brother's heart was likely to be engaged soon if it was not already. If they married, I would have to see Mr. Thorpe from time to time, but otherwise I thought she would be quite a pleasant sister-in-law.

Later in the evening, she finally came and sat with me, the first sign of friendship she had shown me all evening. But her words were wanting in the tenderness I might have hoped for.

"Do not be so dull, my dearest creature," she whispered. "You will quite break my heart. It was amazingly shocking, to be sure, but the Tilneys were entirely to blame. Why were not they more punctual? It was dirty, indeed, but what did that signify? I am sure John and I should not have minded it. I never mind going through anything, where a friend is concerned. That is my disposition, and John is just the same. He has amazing strong feelings." She was soon distracted again, but her words made me even more pensive.

It pained me to admit it, but I did think my brother could do better than Isabella. She was lovely and entertaining, all that would make a good companion. But, she was inconstant. I hoped I judged her for herself, and did not let my dislike of her brother influence me. Indeed, when we first met, I was dazzled by her—every word and look, sublime. She was everything I wished I could be—older, sophisticated, beautiful, and agreeable. She knew her way in the world, and the world was kind to her.

And yet, I grew increasingly convinced she was not a good role model for a girl of my disposition. We cannot all be Isabella's, and her desires and thoughts were less and less aligned with my own. There must be room in the kind world for other sorts. That was why I had sought the friendship of Miss Tilney.

I would always be grateful to Isabella for her kindness to me, and for her reading recommendations of course—I thought our love of horrid novels was our strongest point in common—but I felt the cloudy dream-like haze I'd been in since Isabella's arrival was about to clear.

It was time I made my own way.


	17. 23 February 1798

I went to the Tilney's residence the very next morning. Determined as I was to repair what damage had been done and secure of my innocent position, I was still uneasy. My sleep the night before had been poor, my mind too active imagining various dismissive responses from Mr. and Miss Tilney, each more unpleasant than the last.

Milsom street was a grand address, one that Mrs. Allen had hoped to secure for ourselves, but without success. Mrs. Allen was not certain of the correct number, so I was obliged to check in at the pump room before hand. Whatever connections the Tilneys had in order to secure this housing, we had lacked, and that alone made me even more nervous as I stepped up to the door.

It occurred to me that this was the first time I had been out alone. Granted, it was daytime and I was not expected to be on my own long, but it did raise my hopes that I might have gained whatever knowledge of the city and decorum she deemed necessary for regular solitary outings. I thought of the exuberant greeting Medusa had given me that morning at the stable, and was hopeful that Mrs. Allen might yet allow me out alone on horseback before too long.

The door was tall and imposing, but I knocked quickly and then focused on the knocker. My knees began to shake and I took a deep breath to calm myself.

A servant opened the door immediately, and I asked it I might see Miss Tilney. The servant eyed me critically, but what he concluded regarding my person I cannot say. I had taken great care with my dress, and went so far as to wear white—at Mrs. Allen's suggestion—as Miss Tilney always wore that color.

I was let just inside the front door while the servant went to determine if Miss Tilney was at home, though, I was told, it was quite probable. I sent my card.

A few minutes later—the longest minutes of my life—the servant returned, saying Miss Tilney was from home after all. Though his look did not confirm his speech, and I thought, not for the first time, that she might be home—but not to me.

Mortified, I turned from the house and took myself off, venturing a single glance at the front window. I did not expect to see anyone there, and had begun to turn back when movement caught my eye from yet another window on the upper floor. But it was not Miss Tilney I saw there.

It was her brother. His look, though I could not see it clear enough to know if it was a chastening one, was certainly thus. But he disappeared the moment he realized I had seen him. I kept walking, in case he should come after me. I did not want to appear as though I was loitering about like a leech that would not leave off.

As I turned into Bond street, I chanced a look back. Instead of Mr. Tilney running after me, which I admit was my tacit hope, I saw Miss Tilney herself going out the front door with her father.

Turning away immediately, I rushed around the corner so as not to be seen. I walked as quickly as possible, breathing heavily, blinking away my tears.

She had been there all the time. I could not believe it—I was so sure my entreaties would be heard, that my offense was not unforgivable. The offense I had given was grave, I knew, but I hoped that such a lady as she would have looked for another explanation, and not assumed the worst. I knew not the laws of worldly politeness, however, and could only judge my misconduct by my own experience. Perhaps, in my ignorance, I had given myself false hopes. If what I had done was so truly terrible and unforgivable in Miss Tilney's eyes, there may be further misery to yet reap at our next meeting.

Such thoughts, dramatic as I knew them to be, were what carried me into the stables at home. I issued commands to the stable hand for Medusa to be saddled and readied immediately.

While she was being brought out, I crept up to my room and put on the riding habit that lay at the very bottom of my trunks. A true horsewoman never goes anywhere without a habit, after all.

Medusa was there waiting when I went down ten minutes later. I spoke as little as possible, knowing I was on the verge of tears. I nodded my thanks to the hand, then led Medusa out into the road.

Taking the same route as I had the day I rode Hambletonian —ages ago it seemed—I left the city, riding hard. I had pinned my hair up into a hat this time, not wishing to appear disheveled when I returned. Indeed, the possible consequences of riding out alone had not yet crossed my mind.

I would not slow down, for I was not far enough away. The city, the people, the Thorpes, and now the Tilneys too, I just wished to be away from it all in my own little world, just as I was used to being while in Fullerton. The tears came swiftly, the disappointment and embarrassment I felt was fresh and I could see no way to return from it. My time left in Bath, less than three weeks, now seemed interminable. I was sure to see the Tilney's many times before departing. I hoped that I could bear their snubs with equanimity—I had caused enough scenes already.

At home, when I was very upset, there was a shaded corner of a small cemetery a mile from our house that I would run to. A bench, a weeping willow, and the wind were my usual companions there while I wept at whatever perceived calamity had befallen me. I should have just gone to cry at my pillow like Sarah does, but my pillow held no comfort.

Medusa, not having been exercised much of late, began to tire after a short time. I pulled up, shaded in a small grove of trees near the bank of the Avon. The river had a wide meandering path that crossed back and forth upon the land, and I led her to the bank that she might drink. The wind on my face made me shiver, and I reached up to wipe away tears.

Silence crept by, with only the sound of the water to distract from it. I leaned forward to rest for a bit, my arms around her neck.

A noise, something like a soft rustle, caught my attention and I suddenly sat up, ramrod straight. Turning my head, I beheld an approaching figure on horseback.

The figure of Henry Tilney.


	18. 23 February 1798 PART 2

He kept on, his horse coming toward us with regular steps. Was the censure to begin already?

Not wishing to appear at a loss—which I was without a doubt—I said, "Have you been following me?"

Mr. Tilney did not reply. The silence grew until he'd reached the same shade as shielded me. His eyes, squinting earlier in the sun, now adjusted and he was able to see the detailed features of my face, which I knew included every classic indicator of having a cry.

He looked embarrassed, uncomfortable even. "I am sorry to intrude on your reverie. Perhaps I should not have kept on after you saw me. But it would appear worse, would it not, for me to follow you and then withdraw after your notice, than for me to intrude upon what I discovered, too late, to be a private moment?"

"I concede your point. Whether it is actually worse, however, depends greatly upon your reasons for following. You saw me leaving your house."

He nodded. "Eleanor was quite sure there was some explanation for…what happened yesterday."

"Only Eleanor? Did you believe the worst then?"

"I will not entrap myself, Miss Morland, by agreeing to a term whose meaning has no bound."

"Oh, confound it all. Of course you thought the worst, I know what you think of me. It was only in sufferance to your sister's wishes that you agreed to such an outing."

His horse began to move back and forth in place, sensing tension in the rider.

"You are quite mistaken," he said. "A country walk is one of my chief enjoyments of Bath."

I shook my head, the embarrassment I'd felt at my appearance, forgotten. "You are so clever at answering without truly saying anything. I daresay, you have never said anything at all."

"We both know that isn't true. I say many things."

"Like what?"

He looked down at the trampled grass. "Perhaps we might ride? When saying something, I do find calming scenery to be just the thing."

He led the way, and I gave Medusa leave to follow at his side.

As we left the shade, Mr. Tilney took up the conversation once more. "You are quite the rider. If had not seen your face as you rode past me, I would never have known you. However did you conquer such an animal?"

"Oh, Medusa's not as bad as she looks."

"Now you're the one saying nothing."

I shrugged. "We just took to each other. Have you never felt a kinship to something that you couldn't explain?"

His eyes clouded. "I suppose." He took a deep breath before continuing. "Are you going to give me your explanation for yesterday? I did come all this way."

My brows furrowed, considering. "Why did you come all this way, as you put it? We must be several miles outside Bath—"

"Two miles at most."

"—And I may be ignorant of many social customs, but I am fairly certain pursuing a gentlewoman on horseback without invitation is frowned upon."

"I have nothing to conceal. As I said earlier, I was riding by, and I saw you going out alone. Eleanor said you were not allowed to go unaccompanied."

My mouth hung open a moment, but I shut it quickly and struggled to hide my reaction. As cool as I could, I said, "So your outing was solely one of chivalry? That seems unlikely when, for all you knew, I had intentionally snubbed you yesterday."

"Why would you come to see Eleanor if it was intentional?"

"Perhaps I wanted to make sure she understood."

His nostrils flared and his breath was audible. "And is that the explanation I have long sought? Shall I go home and deliver your message?"

"No. Miss Tilney was my object in calling, as you know. It would have been kinder for her to avoid leaving the house until after I had quite gone away. I does pain me to know your servant perjured himself for my sake."

He blinked, slowed, and I pulled up so as not to get ahead. "I am sorry, Miss Morland. We have been talking at cross purposes, it would seem—"

"As usual," I could not help saying.

He cleared his throat. "I would seem that you are laboring under a grievous misapprehension. Eleanor did not wish to turn you away. My father instructed her to do so, impatient as he was to leave for an appointment they shared. It was not intended as a rebuke—most especially as you would not know she was home—but I see now that you did know, and it was received as one."

Relief gradually spread through my body as he spoke and I began to relax, the weight of my anxiety suddenly lifted. Miss Tilney did not hate me after all.

"Thank you for telling me. I did not intend a rebuke either."

The sun grew uncomfortably bright, and I signaled that we might continue on our way. Soon we were again in motion and I could look away from him without fanfare. His face could be so intense, I was drawn in so deeply that I began to feel uneasy to be alone with him.

Safely distracted, I told him of Mr. Thorpe's trickery.

He lips grew taut, as I spoke, his face a thundercloud. "I detest that man," he said, his voice rough. "I wish for your sake you might be removed from his society."

I shook my head, before recalling he was looking ahead. "It is not possible. My brother and he are good friends."

"Should you ever need to escape his company, you might say you are engaged to see my sister or I."

My eyes widened with the unexpected gesture. "Thank you. That is very kind. Acceptable excuses are hard to come by most days."

He gave no reply, and stunned by his words I could think of nothing to say.

I became lost in thought, thinking of nothing and everything at once.

"Your horse is quite as tall as mine," he said, startling me into the present. "I am impressed with how you handle her. Though, I must say, she seems more at home on a race course than as a lady's mount."

"Oh, yes. She would win them all, I daresay, and love every moment. It is so unfortunate that I should be a woman, and prevented from jockeying my own horse, for I know she does not do as well with other riders. I believe her spirit was a little broken when we first met. She still needs regular mending."

"She is lucky to have you then. My father has been talking of breeding a few racehorses. He tasked me with making inquiries for a suitable stud, whilst we are here."

Excitement grew in my chest. "I may know of someone who has such a stud."

Mr. Tilney met my look, surprise showing in his face. "Oh yes?"

I nodded. "Yes," I laughed, "you needn't look so shocked. I'm sure many a lady has been more knowledgeable on your best subjects."

"More often than I care to let on."

I smiled. "Though I cannot say whether the man will be interested. Last we spoke, he was less certain he wished to retire the horse from racing."

"A little reluctance is nothing to my father. He can be very persuasive, when he wants to be. What is the name of the horse?"

"'Tis Hambletonian," I said. "His owner is Sir Harry—"

"—Vane-Tempest," he said, nodding, "I know of him." He paused, staring blankly at the reins he held. "How are you acquainted with him?"

The question, though spoken lightly, was made less casual by the tension in his grip. I wondered if Mr. Tilney was personally acquainted with him, but I dared not ask.

"The merest chance. He was in Bath a few weeks ago, and sought out Mr. Allen. I believe Sir Harry Vane-Tempest's father and Mr. Allen were old friends."

"I see." He urged his horse to a faster walk, mine following in kind. "I shall have to apply to Mr. Allen for his direction."

—

That evening at the theater, Mrs. Allen quizzed me on the events of the morning.

"How was your visit with Miss Tilney, dear? You were resting when we got home after luncheon. When you did not join us this morning I grew concerned. She did not treat you poorly I hope?"

"She was out, unfortunately. But I feel certain our next meeting will be soon." A thorough look around the theater met no information at all. I saw none of the Tilneys.

The Thorpes shared our box, and I had managed to avoid being seated beside Mr. Thorpe. His eagerness for my presence this evening was decidedly cooler than yesterday morning, as he had instantly demurred at the slight excuse I made for Mrs. Allen having a better view from the seat beside me.

The play was vastly entertaining, a rather pompous man and teacher, suddenly elevated to the title of Lord after his cousin dies. Mr. Thorpe soon revealed himself to be one who talks incessantly over the actors so the other cannot hear. My good fortune at his sitting on the opposite end of the box was felt strongly. Indeed, I was rapt until the arrival of the General and Mr. Tilney after the fourth act.

I cannot recall much of the fifth act, I'm afraid.

Though Mr. Tilney had appeared friendly today, I worried that the matter might have been relayed to General Tilney, and I did fear his disapproval. The General did not once look my way, however, and though that should have made me feel better, the fact that Mr. Tilney did not look either was cause for additional concern.

Mr. Tilney may have been very interested in the the play, as it was a good one certainly. But he had missed the first four parts! How could he fully enjoy—

My breath held. Mr. Tilney finally looked my way. The corner of my eye had been fixed on him for some time, as I tried to watch the play at the same time. And then, he bowed and smiled—which miraculously put me at ease.

No matter how foolish it may be to need the approval of ones friends to feel comfortable, I was glad to have not lost what approval I had, and would far rather be foolish than unhappy. A look from Mr. Tilney was almost as good as a look from Miss Tilney after all.

He looked away, and I looked down into my lap, my hands fidgeting. The play ended not five minutes later, and upon glancing back to the Tilney's box, the General was now alone.

The question in my mind, whether he was coming to see me, was soon answered when he appeared. He greeted Mrs. Allen and Isabella, who was behind me. I became suddenly aware that I had briefed neither on my meeting Mr. Tilney that morning.

He engaged them both in conversation, but Isabella was soon drawn back to James, and Mrs. Allen excused herself to resettle her gown in the powder room.

"How did you like the play?" I asked, seeking comfort in an innocuous topic.

"Well enough."

"Have you seen this one before? I can't imagine coming to a play only to watch the final act. The enjoyment must be less to have seen only a part."

"Yes, I saw it earlier this week, but was obliged to leave early."

I nodded, blushing slightly at my daring criticism. "I am glad to hear it, that is, that you did not miss the beginning."

He angled his head. "Are you sure you won't need to come back to see the last as well? I could have sworn you were watching our box rather than the play."

My face warmed, the slight blush now positively red, I was sure. "Certainly not! I may have occasionally glanced at your box, but it was only out of concern that the General might wish to glare at me."

"He knows nothing of the matter."

"Then why is he speaking to Mr. Thorpe?" I nodded toward Mr. Tilney's box, where, Mr. Thorpe had joined General Tilney. Their discussion appeared to have the General captivated.

Mr. Tilney turned round to look. "That is unexpected. I would not have thought them acquainted. But, you can be sure they are not talking about you."

General Thorpe chose to look at Catherine for the first time that night, at that precise moment. He peered across the way, looking through his eyeglass.

"Do you see? He's looking right at me. They are talking about me."

With a sound of exasperation, Mr. Tilney said, "It is far more likely he looks at you simply because I am standing next to you, and is always poking his nose into his children's business."

The General looked away, but not before I was given the impression that his assessment of me had found me wanting.

Later, our party was breaking up. Mr. Tilney had gone back to his father and Mr. Thorpe returned to us. Were it not my reluctance to draw Mr. Thorpe into private conversation, I would have asked him outright what he was doing with the General. To my surprise, he brought it up himself as we waited in the lobby for our transport, and asked me if I had seen him talking with General Tilney.

"He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul! Stout, active—looks as young as his son. I have a great regard for him, I assure you: a gentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived."

I silently agreed that he looked well for his age. "But how came you to know him?"

"Know him! There are few people much about town that I do not know. I have met him forever at the Bedford, and I knew his face again today the moment he came into the billiard-room. One of the best players we have, by the by, and we had a little touch together, though I was almost afraid of him at first. The odds were five to four against me; and, if I had not made one of the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever was made in this world—I took his ball exactly—but I could not make you understand it without a table. However, I did beat him. A very fine fellow, as rich as a Jew. I should like to dine with him. I dare say he gives famous dinners. But what do you think we have been talking of? You. Yes, by heavens! And the general thinks you the finest girl in Bath."

"Oh! Nonsense! How can you say so?" I said, not sure if I could rely upon anything he said.

"And what do you think I said?"—lowering his voice—"well done, General, said I. I am quite of your mind."

"Hmm. Well that is kind of him to say."

I was grateful to Mr. Allen for calling me away just then, as Mr. Thorpe was trying to be so agreeable. His efforts, though kind in other circumstances, struck me as nothing more than an attempt to wipe away past wrongs. His preening about his knowing the General seemed a little silly, as was his assumption that it would raise my opinion of him.

The possibility that the look General Tilney gave was one of approval, did raise my spirits somewhat. But I did not allow myself to be swept away, for I knew now that I could never trust the word of a Thorpe. Isabella, though not the main instigator, may have been complicit in his lie. She could have seen that her brother did not converse with any man, whether alike Mr. Tilney or no, in a passing carriage the day of the failed outing.

But, no, that can't be right. She was riding with my brother, and as I knew well, when together they had no attention for anyone else. I would not lose faith in Isabella, as that would be to lose faith in a woman who may yet be my sister-in-law.


	19. 24 February 1798

I slept deeply that night and awoke the next day much lighter of heart, my fears put to rest. As it was Sunday, we attended church with the Thorpes as usual. Nothing Mr. Thorpe said could dislodge my good mood—I knew a meeting with Miss Tilney was probable that afternoon.

Indeed, no sooner had we arrived at the Crescent after service, I saw Miss Tilney standing with Mrs. Hughes. After excusing myself from my party, I made my way over.

She took my hands in hers. "Miss Morland, how happy I am to see you here! I was so desperate to see you yesterday, but my father can be a tyrant sometimes. You must have thought—oh, I cannot even bear to think of what you had thought. I was so thankful Henry went after you."

We linked elbows and began a ramble across the Crescent.

"Mr. Tilney told me only that he happened to be riding by. If he did indeed seek me out, I am much obliged to him for putting my heart at ease. But I am the one who must apologize. I should never have left, no matter what Mr. Thorpe said." I told her all that happened.

"I never doubted for a second there was not a good reason. Never think I would assume the worst about you."

I smiled. "I do not think your brother was as generous. He had such a thundering look for a time while speaking to me."

Her eyes began to dance. "And, did you have a nice tete-a-tete?" Her sheepish grin afterward gave away her meaning.

I sighed. "Oh, Miss Tilney, I think you have misunderstood how I feel about your brother."

Her eyes lost focus. "I did see something there, I know it. And on his side—he seeks you out as I have not seen him do for another."

"Nonsense! Now I know you are teasing me, for he has all but said he merely tolerates my presence, and finds me very young and ignorant."

"And now I must call that nonsense too! What drivel! Why I heard him say just last eve—"

I had to cut her off before she said anything cause further embarrassment. "—I do have feelings for someone, but it is not Mr. Tilney."

Miss Tilney stopped in surprise. "Oh. Well, I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I do wish we may be friends, and I may have got a little carried away in silly things."

I touched her arm. "No indeed, you have nothing to be sorry for! I am far more silly than you could ever be. And, I want to apologize for my rudeness the other day, when I did not keep our appointment. Mr. Thorpe said he'd seen you driving off to see Wicks Rocks, that he had heard Mr. Tilney say so to another man he was passing. I thought it was odd, and I should not have accepted his explanation for I know you would have told me if your plans changed."

She shook her hand back and forth. "It is nothing to worry about. I'm sure he was very convincing! But I cannot agree with his methods for obtaining your company." She craned her head over the crowd. "It seems my father and brother are now joining Mrs. Hughes. I should get back. Are you free tomorrow?" —a quick nod from me— "Then should we say noon tomorrow for our walk?"

I felt aglow with happiness. I accepted, and we went back to our respective parties. No sooner had I come back when my hand was seized by Isabella. The Allen's were no where to be seen. Had they gone home without me, thinking I would be happier walking with the Thorpe's? How wrong they were. I wondered if Mr. Allen's gout had been bothering him, but I had no opportunity to ask.

"We have such a treat for you my dearest! Why, we are going to go to Clifton tomorrow, and you are to come with us. We shall leave much earlier of course, and—"

"But, I have only just now agreed to walk with the Tilneys tomorrow. Can we not go on Tuesday instead?"

The latter was spoken as three sets of eyes bore into mine. Immediately I was hit with an onslaught of demands, cajoling, and dark looks. But I would not have put off the Tilney's again for all the world. Not even if Sir Harry was the one asking.

Indeed, the fervor with which they beseeched me seemed on one hand to make my company extremely valuable. But on the other, they were not willing to put off their outing for even one day to accommodate me so that I might attend.

Isabella was the most upset by my denials. She reproached me severely. "I cannot help being jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who love you so excessively! When once my affections are placed, it is not in the power of anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are stronger than anybody's—I am sure they are too strong for my own peace, and to see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers does cut me to the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up everything else." She applied a handkerchief to her eyes.

"Nay, Catherine," James said before I could say anything, "I think you cannot stand out any longer now. The sacrifice is not much, and to oblige such a friend—I shall think you quite unkind if you still refuse."

Isabella's rebuke, while hurtful, was nothing compared to James siding against me. He who was always so tender and full of reason. I knew his feelings for Isabella may demand his taking her side, but it pained me to see it.

"I am sorry," I said, with as firm a voice as I could muster, "but I cannot go tomorrow. If Mr. Thorpe can go to town on Wednesday, then we may still make a day of it on Tuesday."

And again, more insisting that Tuesday would not do.

"Very well," said Isabella with cold resentment, "then there is an end of the party. If Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing."

James said again, "Catherine you must go." My head began to ache, and I felt battered.

"But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters?" I exclaimed, fed up with them all. "I daresay either of them would like to go."

"Thank ye," cried Mr. Thorpe, "but I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, damn me if I do. I only go for the sake of driving you."

"That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure." But my words were lost on Mr. Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away and disappeared into the crowd.

The rest of us continued walking together for a few minutes.

"I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James, "you were not used to be so hard to persuade. You once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters."

"I hope I am not less so now," I said, my heart in my eyes. "But indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right."

"I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great struggle."

I wished more than ever to be a thousand miles away from Bath. I drew away my arm, where Isabella and I had been walking arms linked. Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till we were again joined by Mr. Thorpe, who, coming to them with a happier look, said, "Well, I have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses."

"You have not!" I cried.

"I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton with us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine—hey?"

Isabella's countenance was once more all smiles and good humor, and James too looked happy again.

"A most heavenly thought indeed!" said James. "Now, my sweet Catherine, all our distresses are over. You are honorably acquitted, and we shall have a most delightful party."

"This will not do," I said, my arms trembling at my sides. "I cannot submit to this. I must run after Miss Tilney directly and set her right."

Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and remonstrances poured in from all three. "Everything is settled," said James, "and Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would suit her as well, it is quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any further objection!"

I struggled between their grasps, straining to break free.

"I do not care." I began. "Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message. If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way, and how do I know that Mr. Thorpe has—He may be mistaken again perhaps. He led me into one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe. Isabella, do not hold me."

Mr. Thorpe only tightened his grip, crushing my hand to the point of pain. His voice sounded sinister, as he said, "It would be in vain for you to go after the Tilneys. They are certainly already at home by now."

"Then I will go after them, wherever they are I will go after them. If I could not be persuaded into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it." Finally I wrenched my hand away from Isabella, and hit Mr. Thorpe's arm until I was able to break free.

I ran away from them all as quickly as I could, darting glances back to see if I was pursued. After running for several minutes, my breath was completely gone and I stopped for a moment, breathing hard.

Until ten minutes ago, I had never actually been afraid of Mr. Thorpe. I inspected the hand and wrist that he had held so forcefully, though nothing seemed amiss. I looked up at a nearby street sign, half worried I had passed George street already, and was relieved to discover I was just at the corner.

I hurried on, not running, but walking quickly until I reached the top of Milsom street, where I could see the Tilneys turning into their lodgings. When I arrived on their doorstep, their door was still ajar as their servant was still arranging the three umbrellas that had been handed him one minute before.

I ran inside, stopping for only a moment to say, "I must speak with Miss Tilney this moment," and hurried by him up the stairs, to where I believed the family must be. I flung open the first door before me, and walked in.


	20. 24 February 1798 PART 2

Three pairs of brown eyes met mine as I hurled through the open door and then skidded to a stop before I tripped over a potted plant. It teetered in place, threatening to tip over and dump out its contents, then stilled. Our eyes shifted back up and their surprised, expectant looks made me wish I had waited to be shown in. My breath came in great billows, having lost breath again in my rush down Milsom.

Time slowed, and my mind was blank of any elegant explanation for my uninvited company, and I could only stagger out a semblance of an explanation between breaths.

"I am come in a great hurry…it was all a mistake…I never promised to go…I told them from the first I could not go…I ran away in a great hurry to explain…I did not care what you thought of me…and—" turning toward the door which had recently been closed softly by an unseen hand, "I would not stay for the servant."

After saying these words, their faces remained suspended in confusion for what seemed an age, though Mr. Tilney was turning his head away—but not enough to hide a small grin.

I cast my eyes down.

Miss Tilney finally came forward—though I dare say it was immediately.

"Slow down, Catherine. Is there anything amiss?"

"Did…did not Mr. Thorpe come to you?" I would not be surprised if he had lied about the entire exchange.

"He did," said Mr. Tilney as he stood and joined us. His sister glanced at him as he approached. "But knowing him as we do, my sister and I assumed he was having a lark. I daresay that was his object, was it not?"

Miss Tilney was nodding her head. "I knew he must be mistaken. I had resolved to think nothing of it, but only to write and tell you about—his joke."

They were peddling half-truths, I presumed, on Mr. Thorpe's behalf—that his character not be defamed with the General.

"Yes. He had quite misunderstood. I had said I would not join them—but the next thing I knew, he had run off to tell you who knows what! I am so glad that nothing has come of his interference."

The General stood up and requested an introduction from his daughter, then had us all sit. The General, handsome and fit with sliver hair at his temples, smiled with great warmth and paid such attention to my comfort, that I might have fallen over in shock if not for Miss Tilney's steadying hand. His kindness and solicitude overwhelmed me, when, less than a day before, I assumed he had judged me harshly.

"Now, what is all this talk about John Thorpe?" he asked, joining in the conversation.

Mr. Tilney spoke, choosing his words carefully. "Thorpe delivered a message to us as we walked home, Father. Only, he was mistaken in the contents, a misunderstanding is all. Miss Morland came to rectify it—and no harm is done."

General Tilney settled a smile on me. "Ah, but were it not for his mistake," he said, "I might not have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Morland today. It has all turned out….rather well." His face turned serious. "Do let me apologize to you for the behavior of William, for him to allow you to enter without ceremony—why, a lady such as yourself, what can he mean by it? I shall speak with him, I assure you."

"Please," I burst out as soon as he drew breath, "please do not chastise him. I flew past him, gave him no opportunity to do his duty. I was very out of sorts, please do not punish him on account of my own bumbling entrance."

"I see. Well, under such reassurance I will certainly spare him any inquiry. I see you are both as caring for the feelings of my children, as you are for our servants. A rare strain of compassion that every young woman should have, but only the most exemplary do."

"Thank you," I said, growing ill at ease under his praises.

He enquired after the Allens, and though I answered his questions as best I could, felt my conversation dreadfully lacking. Were it not for the interjections from the Tilney siblings, it would have been even more awkward.

I estimated how long I had been in the room, and I was sure it was near the quarter hour. They would be expecting my departure, I presumed. "I am so sorry to have interrupted your Sunday evening," I said, "but I am glad to have made things right. If you'll excuse me until tomorrow, I shall take no more of your time."

The men shot up from their seats as I arose, Miss Tilney the last the stand.

Mr. Tilney took a step in my direction, halting at his father's saying, "Eleanor will show you out. I do hope you will come again."

I looked between him and Mr. Tilney, thanking them both. Miss Tilney and I went down the stairs. As we parted at the door, she said, "Until noon tomorrow, my friend."

I pressed her hand. "Until tomorrow. Good bye."

I walked away quickly, a happiness blooming that could not be suppressed. I kept my steps even until I was in Bond street, and then could not help but dance and skip my way home.

The thought that someone might see me and laugh did not bother me one whit. A great man had paid me deep respect today. I deserved a little more spring in my step.

—

That evening, I told Mrs. Allen all that had occurred while Mr. Allen rested.

"That's unfortunate you won't see Blaize Castle," she began. "I commend your sense of right, my dear. Mrs. Thorpe, for all her charms" —I must say, I could not tell which charms she referred to— "has given her children too much freedom."

"I cannot imagine what that means. At home I am free to do most anything I wish."

Mrs. Allen searched for the yellow thread for her embroidery. "That may be, but you probably had less freedom when you were younger. You had to be accountable for things."

"I suppose. Though now I think on it, Mama is still terribly strict with some things." I began to wind up the blue floss she had finished with. I enjoyed embroidery and might have joined her did I not need the mental calming that always came with winding.

"I should like to meet this General Tilney," she said.

"I'm sure you shall, now that he has met me, it is just a matter of time."

She continued in silence for a time, then said, "Sir Harry Vane-Tempest wrote to me today."

My hand stilled. "Was it expected?"

"Not at all. I did not think he would be so socially on point to remember to send letters to his friends, informing them of his departure. I daresay his letter to me was an afterthought, as it has been many days since he left. Still, it is more than I expected of him."

"Hmm." I said. "Sometimes people can surprise you." Mr. Tilney's occasional thoughtfulness had taught me that.

"Quite right," she said, "Perhaps he is not the scoundrel I thought him. But a letter-writing scoundrel seems an unlikely coupling of traits in my mind."

I smiled and set aside the yellow. I hesitated before bringing out my own embroidery. I was working with tiny ribbons, far easier than traditional as embroidery floss was more slender.

"If I were a scoundrel," I began, "I should be clever enough that no one knew it. How can one take advantage of others when they will not invite you anywhere?"

Mrs. Allen burst out laughing. "Oh my dear, the thought—" Another peal of laughter followed.

My screen sat abandoned in my lap as I fixed an affronted look on Mrs. Allen.

She wiped her eyes. "Oh, thank you for such a rousing jest. I haven't laughed so hard in ages. Not since Mr. Allen's last dress suggestion, that is. He actually thought a brown ribbon would go with my straw hat. I was truly horrified, and laughed each time I recollected it for days."

"I had not meant it as a jest," I said. "Haven't you ever thought about scoundrels, rakes, what have you? I've seen a number of them in novels, but none in real life until you pointed out Sir Harry, though he did not seem like any I've read about." I peeked out from the corner of my eye.

Mrs. Allen gave me a serious look. "I've encountered my fair share of scoundrels, and I can tell you—there is no understanding them. Take Sir Harry for instance. In addition to his farewells, he wrote that he happened to be in Salisbury, and has come across the shop that sells frigate-shaped buttons—and has enclosed their direction!"

I hovered over my embroidery, eyes unfocused as I ceased to be aware of the pattern and could only focus on Mrs. Allen's last words.

"And he found frigate-shaped buttons for you?" I said as calmly as could be managed. "How remarkable, after all these years, that they should still be available." Especially considering they never existed in the first place. What—had he gone into every shop until he found one to commission such a design? My eyes refocused on the the beribboned Hambletonian I had been stitching. It was intended to be a scene of him wandering through a meadow of buttercups, but I had not finished working on the central figure. I pressed the cloth to my chest, concealing my work. I looked up, right into Mrs. Allen's watchful eye.

"I thought so too. It was very kind of him. A little too kind. Tell, me, dear Catherine, what do you think of our Sir Harry? Is he such an enigma?"

I looked back down, fumbling with the needle while I said, "He seemed very kind and generous to me. And he is so good to Hambletonian ."

Mrs. Allen took up her hoop again. "So…you like him?" she asked, her eyes on her embroidery while I snuck a look. Such an innocent sounding question, but I felt certain the answer I gave would be important, one way or another.

I chose to be honest. "I do. A great deal." I gave up all pretense of stitching and focused on her face, searching for her honest reaction. But she only nodded in her usual way.

"Hmm," she said. "It is a pity he has left Bath then, is it not?"

"What?" The insouciance of her response was totally unexpected. "Oh, quite, yes." A smile crept onto Mrs. Allen's face. I said, puzzled, "I thought for certain you would disapprove."

"Oh pish," she said, waiving her hand into the air. "I disapprove only when the whim takes me. And does he like you?"

My mind went to the frigate buttons. "I believe so. Yes." I thought back to the surprise I'd felt at realizing the significance of this trip. Considering Mrs. Allen's recent words, I felt even more ridiculous that it had not been immediately apparent.

"Mrs. Allen, did my parents ask you to bring me to Bath?" I looked own at my fidgeting hands. "Are they trying to marry me off?"

Her hand rested on mine. "Oh, darling Catherine. You poor thing. You've got a mamma and pa that are a little backward, I'm afraid." She gently pushed my head up touching under my chin. "Your mamma never even thought about your future. Last year after you turned seventeen, she and I had a bit of a chat. Why, she'd never even noticed there were no young men your age in the neighborhood! I suggested the next time Mr. Allen and I went away, we'd take you with us and bring you out. I'm sure you've realized," she looked down nervously, "I'm not the best chaperon, or confidante, nor even hostess. Why, we brought you here when I had not a single acquaintance! I wish I could have done better for you, and prepared you in some way, but I left that to your mamma. I see now that she promptly forgot all about it, and you probably came thinking it wasn't a social visit."

"Yes," I said, and dabbed at the corner of my eye. "I have learned a great deal these past few weeks. Sir Harry helped me feel so comfortable, so myself. And I know his stable is top notch."

"A stable can be remedied my dear," she said. "Income and connections cannot."

"Then his baronetcy and wealth may win you over completely," I said.

"Perhaps. What of Mr. Tilney, or for that matter, Mr. Thorpe?"

"Mr. Thorpe has won my contempt, I'm afraid, for his boorish and ungentlemanly behavior."

She winced. "Poor Mrs. Thorpe—I know she has harbored some manner of hope with you."

I shrugged, her situation drawing a little of my compassion. "If only he was more considerate of my feelings. I am sorry for her." But not sorry enough to throw myself away.

"And, Mr. Tilney? You already know I approve of him, quite strongly I might add. A unique gentleman, I must say."

I looked toward the open door, willing someone to walk in and interrupt. And I sighed, there was no getting out of this conversation. "We do not get on. I think he is too clever to enjoy my simple company. But he has shown me unexpected kindness. And his sister is perfectly amiable. I so look forward to our walk tomorrow."

The clock chimed, reminding us of the lateness of the hour, and we retired to our beds.

She to sleep, and I to stay awake—overthinking as always.


	21. 25 February 1798

Beechen Cliff, the primary scenery on the following day's walk, was so massive up close it was quite overwhelming. After hours of insomnia last night, I had given up on sleep and began rereading a borrowed copy of Udolpho by candlelight. Though I had managed to find sleep eventually, my step today was slower than I would have liked.

Miss Tilney and I walked arm and arm.

"I never look at it," I said of the cliff as we walked along the side of the river, "without thinking of the south of France."

"You have been abroad then?" said Mr. Tilney, a little surprised.

"Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her father traveled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?"

"Why not?" he said.

"Because they are not clever enough for you," I said. "Gentlemen read better books."

I did so hope Sir Harry approved of novel reading. The next time we met, I should ask him straightaway. My father would not approve of Udolpho, though I grew to care less and less on that point. A husband, however—I hoped he would not be opposed.

"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid," said Mr. Tilney. "I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again. I remember finishing it in two days—my hair standing on end the whole time."

"Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it."

"Thank you, Eleanor—a most honorable testimony. You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion."

"That will depend upon if you returned it later, with grave apologies."

"Oh, he did," said Miss Tilney, laughing at her brother.

"I am very glad to hear it indeed," I said, "and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself, though I am certain my father would not let it into the house. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."

"It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement if they do—for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can compare with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of 'Have you read this?' and 'Have you read that?' I shall soon leave you as far behind me as—what shall I say?—I want an appropriate simile—as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"

I laughed. His good humor had never been so evident before, and I began to wonder where this side of him had been in our earlier conversations.

"Not very good, I am afraid," I said. "You have taken me by surprise you know—a man who brags of his novel reading? I would accuse you of jesting but for your sister's testimony. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?"

"The nicest," he said, "—by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding."

"Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word 'nicest,' as you used it, did not suit him. You had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way."

"I am sure," I said in my most sardonic tone. "It is a nice book, and why should not I call it so?"

"Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement—people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word."

"While, in fact," said his sister, "it ought only to be applied to you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of reading?"

"To say the truth, I do not much like any other."

"Indeed!"

"I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in. Can you?"

"Yes, I am fond of history."

"I wish I were too," I said, stepping over a fallen branch, the path growing more rugged as we started our ascent. "I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page—the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all—it is very tiresome. And yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes' mouths, their thoughts and designs—the chief of all this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other books."

"So…historians, you think, are not happy in their flights of fancy—that they display imagination without raising interest?" I nodded and she continued, "I am fond of history—and am very well contented to take the false with the true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence in former histories and records, which may be as much depended on, I conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one's own observation. And as for the little embellishments you speak of, they are embellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made—and probably with much greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great."

"You are fond of history! And so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I have two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my small circle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books, it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be laboring only for the torment of little boys and girls, always struck me as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right and necessary, I have often wondered at the person's courage that could sit down on purpose to do it."

"That little boys and girls should be tormented," said Mr. Tilney, "is what no one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can deny. But on behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe that they might well be offended at being supposed to have no higher aim—that by their method and style, they are perfectly well qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature time of life. I use the verb 'to torment,' as I observed to be your own method, instead of 'to instruct,' supposing them to be now admitted as synonymous."

"Certainly they are," I said. "You may convey my apologies to your historian friends, I should have considered their pride and never accused them of tormenting children only."

"But even you may perhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while to be tormented for two or three years of one's life, for the sake of being able to read all the rest of it. Consider—if reading had not been taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have written in vain—or perhaps might not have written at all."

"That is true enough."

Mr. Tilney then struck up a new conversation wit his sister on the merits of their surroundings as they might be sketched.

I had little to add to the siblings conversation, nor did I understand most of what they spoke of. I lost the thread of the conversation, and amused myself instead by picturing what I might see from the top of the cliff.

"And what have you to say, Miss Morland?" said Mr. Tilney. "Your silence has but whet our interest in what thrilling sentence you might finally declare. Tell us truly, do you think that visage a picturesque one?"

They had caught me out, as I had heard naught of the last five minutes. Though I thought Mr. Tilney would likely laugh at me for it, I couldn't respond with any but the truth.

"I was not attending just now, my apologies, but I would not know the picturesque anyway—I have no knowledge of drawing or how any setting might appear on paper. But I do think our surroundings quite lovely, so far as my ignorance allows. I would give anything to be able to draw and speak of light and distance as you do—achoo!" I sneezed. "Do excuse me."

Mr. Tilney did not laugh. "We all possess a knowledge of what is pleasing to the eye," he said, "even if we cannot give a precise justification for it."

While he spoke he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to me. I took it with a word of thanks. He drew me into his discussion then, expounding on various points of drawing a scene, describing what his sister and he had been discussing, then answering his own question with elaborate detail.

The handkerchief went mindlessly into my pocket.

In the gentlest way possible, he tutored me on what made a scene picturesque in the mind of a scholar, and I I felt a window open in my mind, the light he described touching me in a way that made me feel better about myself. I felt much edified by his words. And censure never came.

Finally we stood over the rocky ground at the top of the cliff. I felt so tired in body, but elated in mind with the knowledge I had gained. The sun was at its zenith and gusts of wind blew fiercely upon us.

Miss Tilney put her arm through my own, then said, "What do you think now, Miss Morland? Would you consider drawing this view?"

I studied the landscape before me. "This morning, I would have drawn any crack or mudpile and thought it grand, but now I fear the entire city of Bath may be unworthy to make a part of the landscape."

Miss Tilney and I laughed, though her brother did not. He said, "And whatever is wrong with it? I think the view is breathtaking, personally—the perfect setting to settle a dawn dispute, or draw excellent landscapes."

Dawn disputes? Neither Miss Tilney nor I had anything to say to that. Had he misunderstood my words so completely?

Miss Tilney laughed through the curtain of awkward silence. "Henry you must mind your tongue. We have not won Miss Morland just yet I'm afraid."

"Sister," he said, "I am indeed joking. I would never choose such a prominent location," —a hard look from Miss Tilney— "I assure you I am cleverer than that."

"What are you two talking of?" I said, "My joke has lost its triumph with all this underhand discussion."

"A joke, was it?" Mr. Tilney said, then laughed. "I should have known. It is a favorite style of mine, to say something so ridiculous it can only be a joke—but then there are some who will still misunderstand, and take offense."

"And yet, there are those who believe the ridiculous. How is one to tell the difference?"

My question was met with silence. Then a falcon's caw startled us all, its flight path coming so close it's feathers nearly touched my cheek.

Miss Tilney began whispering furiously to her brother. I felt the urge to sneeze once again, and turned away. Several moments later, I turned back to watch Miss Tilney walking away from us both—not back down the hill, but in a new direction. The same, I realized, the falcon had taken.

I watched her retreat without a word, and she quickly disappeared from view as the brush and trees grew thick. Finally when she was completely hidden from view, I turned to Mr. Tilney.

"You must excuse my sister. She had a sudden and unexpected errand."

"How odd. Will she be returning?" I said.

"I think it very likely."

"You are not certain?"

"Not fully certain, but I know her character and she will be back soon. Your questions must wait for her I'm afraid, I will not divulge her secrets."

His face showed only the polite mask of a gentleman, and did not reveal more.

"Very well. Perhaps you will divulge yours then. I only pretended for your sister's benefit earlier, but I am not a complete dunderhead." I looked him dead in the eye. "You were referring to this as the perfect location for a duel, were you not? I would not have taken you for a man of violence."

His mask did not waver. The wind blew heavily at his back causing his greatcoat to billow around him. I shivered and pulled my arms close to my chest.

"All men are violent," he said, turning half into the gale. "But some of us have better control than others."

He shrugged of his coat and took the three steps that separated us. He threw the coat out and drew it up over my shoulders. I clutched the soft wool, and pulled it close around my slender frame. The weight of his hands rested on my shoulders.

"Thank you," I said, almost in a whisper.

Out eyes met, not six inches apart. Close as he was, I saw the skin on his cheeks, smooth from his morning shave. The scent of sandalwood, undetectable before this moment, grew strong. His steady in and out breathing, audible enough to detect a slight hitch. The lids of his eyes dropped, veiling his brown eyes as he blinked. Color blossomed in his face, and were it not for the cold, I might have thought it a blush.

"I may have the utmost control," he said, searching my face, "but there is also honor."

He dropped his hands away and took a step back.

"Is it not possible to satisfy honor without violence?" I said, surprised he was willing to discuss the matter.

"Sometimes, yes. But not always."

He looked away, down the hill where his sister had gone. "She is taking longer than I would like," he said, a wrinkle through his forehead.

"Then let us go investigate. I know not her secret errand, but I am concerned as well."

We were soon on our way. The path Miss Tilney had walked was no path at all. I could have slipped in between the trees easily but for the cape that now caught on every branch and root. I finally managed to bundle it tightly enough that we made a little headway into the trees where she had disappeared.

We soon caught her up.

Not but a minute into the thicket, Miss Tilney stood next to a man on horseback, a falcon on his shoulder. He leaned forward, both her hands in his.

Mr. Tilney did not stop, but kept advancing, which drew the attention of both.

"Stay, Thomas. I thought it was you—a falcon, after all. I came only to ensure my sister was well."

Thomas smiled. "Come, tell the truth, Henry. You just wanted to make sure she came back."

Miss Tilney colored. "Thomas!"

"Not at all," Mr. Tilney said calmly, as though the wind of possible ruin had been unfelt. "But it is good to see you. What takes you to Bath?"

"Only passing through, I'm afraid. I'm headed for Salisbury. There's a case I'm needed for."

"I live near Salisbury," I said.

Miss Tilney introduced us. Mr. Thomas Brearly, a childhood friend of them both, said, "A pleasure, Miss Morland. I wonder, have you been to the fallen stone there?"

Another sneeze, again the handkerchief.

"Excuse me. Are you talking of Stonehenge? Tell me another stone hasn't fallen!"

He shook his hand. "No, no. Just the one." His smile was reassuring.

"Oh, how shocking t'would have been! The stir in my own little town—even though several miles off—it was quite unheard of! When the news came a year ago we all went to Salisbury practically en mass—it was nearly a riot, though my papa would not let me get close. Several in the crowd said there was a man crushed under it when it fell!" I shivered at the memory. "I hope very much they were wrong."

Mr. Brearly looked deep in thought. "A man? Well, the stones are certainly wide enough to conceal a man or two, and yet the base should be broad enough that any fall should have been rather slow, requiring the displacement of soil so compacted it is practically stone itself. A man in its shadow should have had ample time to remove himself from its trajectory."

My mind took a moment to take his meaning. "Remarkable! If only you had been there that day, I could have rested easy."

"I do hope no one was resting easy beside it when the fall occurred." said Mr. Tilney, with an ill concealed smirk.

"Miss Morland, do not mind what he says," began Miss Tilney. "He would have you think him a perverse brute without his sister around."

"He has already admitted as much during your absence. You must promise not to leave again!"

Mr. Brearly announced he had to be getting on. He wish us all goodbye, expressing his happiness to have met a dear friend of the Tilney's. Soon after he rode away, we turned back for the descent.

I was concerned for Miss Tilney—and curious too—but wishing to push aside any awkwardness that had arisen, I changed the topic and shared one of the comments Mrs. Allen mentioned from Sir Harry's letter the previous day.

"I read yesterday that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London."

Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and hastily replied, "Indeed! And of what nature?"

"That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it is to be more horrible than anything we have met with yet."

"Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?"

"Mrs. Allen had an account of it in a letter yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder and everything of the kind."

"You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope your friend's accounts have been exaggerated, and if such a design is known beforehand, proper measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent its coming to effect."

"Government," said Henry, endeavoring not to smile, "neither desires nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder, and government cares not how much."

Miss Tilney and I stared. He laughed, and added, "Come, shall I make you understand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as you can? No—I will be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the generosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no patience with such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the comprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound nor acute—neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want observation, discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit."

"Miss Morland," said Mrs. Tilney in a rush, "do not mind what he says—but have the goodness to satisfy me as to this dreadful riot."

"Riot! What riot?"

"My dear Eleanor," began Mr. Tilney, "the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion there is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more dreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three duodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with a frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern—do you understand? And you, Miss Morland—my confused sister has mistaken all your clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London—and instead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have done, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she immediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling in St. George's Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the Twelfth Light Dragoons—the hopes of the nation—called up from Northampton to quell the insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney, in the moment of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a brickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the sister have added to the weakness of the woman. But she is by no means a simpleton in general."

I was stunned by his speech, which the cordiality and kindness shown to me by him made a farce, but more so as I had never heard someone insult their own sister to such a degree—and in front of another? How shameful! My chest brimmed with rage at his effrontery.

"And now, Henry," said Miss Tilney, "that you have made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland understand yourself—unless you mean to have her think you intolerably rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in general. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways."

"I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them."

"No doubt, but that is no explanation of the present."

"What am I to do?"

"You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before her. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of women."

"Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the women in the world—especially of those—whoever they may be—with whom I happen to be in company."

"That is not enough. Be more serious."

"Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of women than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they never find it necessary to use more than half."

"We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is not in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely misunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any woman at all, or an unkind one of me."

"Well," I began, only minutely reassured, "I can say this at least—I am glad to know he condemns all women equally. Now I may shrug off anything he says as an eccentricity, and not take it as personal insult."

"You see, Henry!" said his sister, "now you must promise to mend your ways, and no longer speak in riddles. If Miss Morland has misunderstood your words, I shudder to think how a less benevolent soul would react."

"Very well—I do solemnly promise!" he said.

Miss Tilney threw her hands up. "Do let us leave him in our dust. Sometimes that is the only solution."

"I heartily agree," I said, and we made sure he was at least twenty feet behind for the rest of the walk. He was back in our good humor by the end of it though, as he had entertained us vastly with a variety of mimicked animal sounds and a long discourse regarding which Radcliffe novel was his favorite, and the only responses in his soliloquy from his faithful friend—the imaginary pony Hilda—that bore him on the journey.

The Tilney's attended me into the house, and before we parted, Miss Tilney addressed herself very respectfully—as much to Mrs. Allen as to myself—and petitioned for the pleasure of my company to dinner on the day after the next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen's side, and the only difficulty on mine was concealing the excess in my pleasure.

Through my bedroom window, I saw them walk slowly back down Pulteney street. My mind was full of thoughts of the day—I had much to think of, and Udolpho did not tempt me for more than a moment. Who needed Udolpho when ones own friends are just as interesting?

Mr. Tilney, a dueller? The shock of his dark past was still fresh. I was beginning to understand just what a complex man he was. I could not help but wonder, had he ever killed his opponent? His sense of humor certainly had a touch of the macabre.

And I was very impatient for dinner the following night. I desperately wished for Miss Tilney to take me into her confidence. They asked me not to mention Thomas to anyone—knowledge I will take to my grave—but the excitement was almost too great to bear.


	22. 26 February 1798

The next morning was spent in a similar state. I floated about absentmindedly thinking of duels and secret loves. There was no room for any other thoughts. And so it was when I was given a note in Isabella's hand, I recoiled from it, recalling the falling out that had occurred two days past.

The rough handling the Thorpes had given me, however, had not been forgotten. The previous morning, ugly bruising became visible on my wrists, which my gloves extended just far enough to conceal.

I inspected my wrists now and found the bruising still visible, the colors only becoming more vivid. I had taken care wear very long sleeves the day before that it might not be noticed at meals, but this morning I had completely forgotten. Mr. Allen might have seen it—heavens, what would he have said? Worse, what would I have had to say to him?

I hastily broke the seal to the letter. I could hear her voice in every sentimental line, her words belying that any difficulty had ever arisen between us. It appeared I was summoned to Edgar's Buildings.

I dropped the letter somewhere or other, then picked up my white kid gloves and pulled them on carefully, watching as the final tug concealed what was necessary.

A short walk later, I entered the drawing room at the Thorpes residence—though I wished myself a thousand times elsewhere. Isabella's temper was a fickle one. Would she be happy to see me? Or would I once again have to face her harsh words? I knew only that I did not look forward to seeing her.

The room held none but Isabella's youngest sister, who loudly called for Isabella upon seeing me. Maria was sent away a moment after Isabella came in, and she looked…happier than I had ever seen her.

Her embrace was warm; she was not having me on.

"Yes, my dear Catherine, it is so indeed, your penetration has not deceived you. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything."

I feigned ignorance, but a chilling feeling settled over me, as though she could hear my thoughts.

"Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend," she continued, "compose yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note? Sly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can judge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of men. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent father and mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them I am so agitated!"

Understanding began to awake, an idea of the truth suddenly darted into my mind. "Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can you—can you really be in love with James?"

Bold as my surmise was, I soon learned it comprehended but half the fact. The Clifton scheme had indeed taken place the day before, as Isabella related—with Maria in my place—they'd had a delightful day together. They had not gone to Blaize Castle, but in the course of their outing, received the delightful confession of an equal love. Her heart and faith were alike engaged to James.

Never had I listened to anything so full of interest. My brother and my friend engaged! New to such circumstances, the importance of it appeared unspeakably great, and I determined that any rudeness I had perceived in Isabella had to have been either misunderstood, or at the behest of her brother John. There was no room for any other feeling toward a future sister-in-law, and any misgivings I had were buried beneath my effusive congratulations.

Now I understood why James had taken Isabella's side against me on the Crescent—he had been planning to propose and I was thwarting him! I pushed aside any thoughts of half an hour ago, and was determined to be thrilled. Indeed, the marriage of a brother and a close friend was one of those grand events, of which the ordinary course of life can hardly afford a return.

It must be acknowledged, however, that Isabella far surpassed me in tender anticipations. "You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my Catherine, than either Anne or Maria—I feel that I shall be so much more attached to my dear Morland's family than to my own."

This was a pitch of friendship beyond me—and I did not respond.

"You are so like your dear brother," continued Isabella, "that I quite doted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me—the first moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland came to us last Christmas—the very first moment I beheld him—my heart was irrecoverably gone. I remember I wore my yellow gown, with my hair done up in braids. And when I came into the drawing-room, and John introduced him, I thought I never saw anybody so handsome before."

This I put to the strength of Isabella's affection, for, though exceedingly fond of my brother, and partial to all his endowments, I had never in my life thought him handsome.

"I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that evening, and wore her puce-colored sarsenet. She looked so heavenly that I thought your brother must certainly fall in love with her—I could not sleep a wink all night for thinking of it. Oh! Catherine, the many sleepless nights I have had on your brother's account! I would not have you suffer half what I have done. I am grown wretchedly thin, I know—but I will not pain you by describing my anxiety-you have seen enough of it. I feel that I have betrayed myself perpetually—so unguarded in speaking of my partiality for the church! But my secret I was always sure would be safe with you."

Her thoughts of nunnery had indeed never occurred to me, and I was unable to recall any instances where she had mentioned it—but I dared not contest the point—or that of my being full of arch penetration. I would rather her think me know everything than nothing, as her good opinion was all the more important now.

James, I discovered, was preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his situation and ask consent—and here was a source of some real agitation to the mind of Isabella. I endeavored to persuade her, as I was persuaded, that my father and mother would never oppose their son's wishes. "It is impossible," I said, "for parents to be more kind, or more desirous of their children's happiness. I have no doubt of their consenting immediately."

"Morland says exactly the same," said Isabella, "and yet I dare not expect it. My fortune will be so small, they never can consent to it. Your brother, who might marry anybody!"

Here I again discerned the influence of affection.

Taking a breath, I said, "Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be nothing to signify."

"Oh! My sweet Catherine, in your generous heart I know it would signify nothing, but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many. As for myself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had I the command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother would be my only choice."

I left that statement alone—but it did make me think of all my favorite heroines—Isabella did have that flair. "I am sure they will consent," was what I continued to repeat. "I am sure they will be delighted with you."

"For my own part," said Isabella, "my wishes are so moderate that the smallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are really attached, poverty itself is wealth—grandeur I detest. I would not settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some retired village would be ecstasy. But this is idle talking! I will not allow myself to think of such things, till we have your father's answer. Morland says that by sending it tonight to Salisbury, we may have it tomorrow. Tomorrow? I know I shall never have courage to open the letter. I know it will be the death of me."

A reverie succeeded this conviction—that I was loathe to break—and when Isabella spoke again, it was to resolve on the quality of her wedding-gown.

Our conference was put to an end by James himself, who came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire. I wished to congratulate him, but knew not what to say. James and I did not need many words, and I daresay he knew my heart in that moment. I wished him a safe journey.


	23. 27 February 1798

I was much in Isabella's company that day, and again the day after as she awaited the all-important letter. She grew more and more despondent, certain she would be rejected, and by the time it arrived she was in real distress. I tried to distract her by acting our favorite scenes of Udolpho, but not even that could bring a smile of more than a fleeting moment. The first three lines of James's letter put her at ease: "I have had no difficulty in gaining the consent of my kind parents, and am promised that everything in their power shall be done to forward my happiness."

The happiness that must follow such an event was transparent in Isabella. That it would follow in me was certain to some degree, but not as much as I wished. The victory felt hollow to me—the outcome had always been assured, and though I did not dwell on it, the reward was not as desirable as it once would have been.

It was a horrible contrast: the felicity going on around me, and in the darkest recess of my mind, wondering if it was not all a terrible mistake. So fully engaged with my own thoughts, I did not realize I was alone in the parlor, the others having withdrawn a minute earlier. A peculiar circumstance. I made to quit the room, but the man I least wished to be alone with, John Thorpe, entered and prevented my joining the ladies. He was dressed for riding, having delayed his departure to London only long enough to hear the contents of the letter.

"Well, Miss Morland," he said, "I am come to bid you good-bye."

I nodded, and moved as far to the side of the tiny room as the furniture would allow. "And I wish you a good journey," I said, and touched my wrist, absently.

He walked to the window nearest to me, fidgeting and humming, apparently without hearing my farewell.

"Shall you not be late?' I moved a little further down the room, again seeking the maximum distance. "Your journey has already been delayed an entire day."

He made no answer, but after a minute's silence burst out with, "A famous good thing this marrying scheme, upon my soul! A clever fancy of Morland's and Belle's. What do you think of it, Miss Morland? I say it is no bad notion."

"I am sure I think it a very good one," I said.

"Do you? That's honest, by heavens! I am glad you are no enemy to matrimony, however. Did you ever hear the old song 'Going to One Wedding Brings on Another?' I say, you will come to Belle's wedding, I hope."

"Yes, I have promised your sister to be with her, if possible."

"And then you know"—twisting himself about and forcing a foolish laugh—"I say, then you know, we may try the truth of this same old song."

"May we?" I said, and saying the next with emphasis: "But I never sing. I dine with Miss Tilney today, and must now be going home."

"Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry," he rushed forward, and grabbed my arm as I tried to walk away. "Who knows when we may be together again?" He leered at me, and the smell of rancid oil reached my nostrils. "Not but that I shall be down again by the end of a fortnight, and a devilish long fortnight it will appear to me."

"Mr. Thorpe," I began in a low voice, my temper growing, "unhand me this instant!"

Though I spoke barely above a whisper, there was more vehemence and strength in my voice than I knew I possessed. He let go—out of surprise, shock, and dare I hope: offense. "You must think me a very low sort of woman to be glad of your rough handling. Indeed, I am neither low nor glad, and I wish you would keep yourself as far from me as possible. If I am seated in a particular chair, you will choose one at the opposite end of the room. Our forced association through the marriage of my brother and your sister does not change anything between your loathsome self and me, nor will I allow you to take any liberties you appear to think your due.

"I would not wish for you to go away in false hopes, and so I will make explicitly clear, there is no future between the two of us. Your ham-handed attempts to coerce me to your agenda have failed, and I urge you to leave off such treatment if you ever choose to court another woman, as it is a most offensive and demeaning tactic for both parties. Have I made myself clear to you, Mr. Thorpe?"

His mouth hung open a moment before he collected himself enough to speak, his shock almost equal to my own in my sudden declaration. "Upon my soul, I have never been more ill-treated! Clear as day, Miss Morland, clear as day. Not that I ever considered you—no that was a misunderstanding on your part, as I already have an understanding with a girl in London—she thinks I'm the tops!"

"Very well then. Good morning to you." And I turned my back to him and marched out of the house, with a quick word to the servant of course, wishing he tell Isabella farewell after I was gone.

I felt a thrill of power surge through me—never had I been able to stand up for myself in such a way. I always felt cowed at the prospect of insult or speaking too strongly, but not this morning. This morning I defended myself against the worst bottom-dweller, and came away the better for it.

The Allen's were glad of the match—I told them of it immediately after returning—and a very tempered delight from each was given. Indeed, the strongest feeling of reaction I heard from either was from Mrs. Allen, who lamented James going to Fullerton without her knowledge, as she would certainly have troubled him with her best regards to his father and mother, and her kind compliments to all the Skinners.

I arrived in Milsom Street that night, full of expectation. We went straight into dinner. I had foolishly imagined Miss Tilney and I seated next to each other at the table and giggling over every silly thing we could think of, but it was not so. I was seated in the middle of a table of extraordinary length—and across from Mr. Tilney. Miss Tilney sat ever so far away at the foot of the table, and General Tilney at the head.

General Tilney was ever so polite, but showed a disproportionately high interest in the Allen's home and estate, both of which I knew little of. I wished he had invited Mr. Allen himself that he might get accurate responses. That would have alleviated a great deal of the silence that attended us.

I had never felt less intimate with Miss Tilney, and Mr. Tilney had never said so little. I could only assume they were feeling a touch unwell. The General was able to fill the void with alacrity. So charming and handsome was he—and Miss Tilney's father after all—I wonder if I am more fashionable than I had given myself credit for, as he seemed to be excessively pleased with me. And he did show great interest in the news I brought of James's engagement to Isabella.

The awkward meal finally broke up and I was actually relieved to get away. The General had been somewhat overwhelming with his flattery, I was unaccustomed to such manners. His final gesture had been a fervent hope they would see me at the Upper Rooms the following evening.

I never imagined the high point of the day would be spent in Mr. Thorpe's company. But with such very high expectations of pleasure in Milsom street, disappointment was inevitable. I determined that I would not look forward to the ball the following day, not even a little bit. Nay, it would be a dreadful affair. I was certain.


	24. 28 February 1798

Isabella and I met the following day to browse at Meyler &amp; Sons.

"It was all pride, pride, insufferable haughtiness and pride!" said Isabella, after I told her about the dinner. "Such insolence of behavior as Miss Tilney's I have never heard of in my life! Not to do the honors of her house with common good breeding! To behave to her guest with such superciliousness! Hardly even to speak to you!"

"But it was not so bad as that, Isabella," I said. "There was no superciliousness—she was very civil...as I said."

"Oh! Don't defend her! And then the brother, he, who had appeared so attached to you! Good heavens! Well, some people's feelings are incomprehensible. And so he hardly looked once at you the whole evening?"

"I did not say that—indeed he sat across from me and did look. But he did not seem in good spirits."

"How contemptible! Of all things in the world inconstancy is my aversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear Catherine. Indeed he is unworthy of you."

"Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me."

"That is exactly what I say," she said, "he never thinks of you. Such fickleness! Oh! How different to your brother and to mine! I really believe John has the most constant heart."

"But as for General Tilney," I said, actively avoiding any talk of Mr. Thorpe, "I assure you it would be impossible for anybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention. It seemed to be his only care to entertain and make me happy."

"Oh! I know no harm of him. I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he is a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and John's judgment—"

I sighed. "Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening as they shall be at the rooms."

"And must I go?" Isabella said.

"Do not you intend it?" I said. Isabella had said as much all along. "I thought it was all settled."

"Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But do not insist upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you know, will be some forty miles off. And as for dancing, do not mention it, I beg. That is quite out of the question. Charles Hodges will plague me to death, I dare say, but I shall cut him very short. Ten to one but he guesses the reason, and that is exactly what I want to avoid, so I shall insist on his keeping his conjecture to himself."

Isabella's opinion of the Tilneys did not influence me, though I was glad to hear my words with her brother had not traveled further. I knew Isabella liked to think the Tilney's very high and I regretted relating the events of the previous night as it appeared to have cemented her dislike for them—excepting the General. I perceived no pride or insolence in either sibling.

That evening my confidence was rewareded and I was met by them with kindness and attention, that is, Miss Tilney sought me out early, and Mr. Tilney asked me to dance.

The fashionable-looking, handsome young man that arrived with the Tilney's party was no mystery to me. Their elder brother, Captain Tilney, was one of the few topics that Mr. Tilney had anything to say of the previous evening. His arrival was expected late last night. Though his looks were very appealing, I found I favored Mr. Tilney's manners. Within my hearing, Captain Tilney protested against every thought of dancing and laughed openly at his brother for finding it possible.

Though I had hoped the Captain might be a potential dance partner, after meeting him and seeing his casual treatment of me and his brother, I did not feel any particular loss. Indeed, were I to be kidnapped by a masked suitor on horseback and forced into marriage—a daydream I'd had over breakfast—Captain Tilney's face would certainly not be that found under the mask.

At the end of the first dance with Mr. Tilney, his brother pulled him away for a few minutes. I jumped to conclusions and became concerned Captain Tilney was warning Mr. Tilney away from my company—that, heaven forbid, news of my very unladylike horseback riding last month had got out. By the time they returned, I was ready to deny all.

"My brother wishes to know if Miss Thorpe would have any objection to dancing this evening."

Captin Tilney hung back a few feet, unwilling to join our circle. I said to Mr. Tilney, "She told me earlier she would not think of it—my brother has yet to return."

A whisper or two passed between the two brothers and the Captain immediately walked away.

"Your brother will not mind it, I know," I said, "because I heard him say before that he hated dancing. But it was very good-natured of him to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she might wish for a partner. But he is quite mistaken."

Mr. Tilney smiled and said, "How very little trouble it gives you to understand the motive of other people's actions."

"Why? What do you mean?"

"With you," he said, "it is not, how is such a one likely to be influenced, what is the inducement most likely to act upon such a person's feelings, age, situation, and probable habits of life considered—but, instead, how should I be influenced, and what would be my inducement in acting so and so?"

"I do not understand you."

"Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly well."

"Me?" I said. "Yes—I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible."

"Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language."

"But pray tell me what you mean."

"Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware of the consequences. It will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and certainly bring on a disagreement between us."

"No, no, it shall not do either," I said. "I am not afraid of you."

"Well then, with such a declaration I shall tell you. I only meant that your attributing my brother's wish of dancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your being superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world."

I felt a blush coming on, and said, "What nonsense you speak."

After that, I am sure I danced as prettily as I knew and went through all the motions, but my mind was not focused upon any of it. I was quite startled to hear the voice of Isabella, and looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give us hands across.

My expression must have said something particular, but Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this extraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it was not quite enough for my comprehension, I spoke my astonishment in very plain terms to Mr. Tilney.

"I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined not to dance. ."

"And did Isabella never change her mind before?"

"Oh! But, because—And your brother! After what you told him from me, how could he think of going to ask her?"

"I cannot take surprise to myself on his asking. You bid me be surprised on your friend's account, and therefore I am. But as for my brother, his conduct in the business, I must own, has been no more than I believed him perfectly equal to. The fairness of your friend was an open attraction. Her firmness, you know, could only be understood by yourself."

"You are laughing," I said, "but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in general."

"It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm must be to be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial of judgment. And, without reference to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe has by no means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour."

"Yes. I do hope James returns soon at any rate."

"Tell me," he said, "have you been out riding much recently?"

"None at all, I'm afraid. The Allen's don't mind my walking alone, but riding is too much for them."

He nodded. "My father has been much occupied of late and no longer rides with me in the mornings. Frederick and I plan to go out tomorrow. I wonder if you would like to join our party?"

I was unable to contain a squeal of delight. "I would adore it! I cannot tell you how miserable I have been without riding. I have only been out once since she arrived."

"I remember it."

I blushed, recalling too late his appearance during that fateful ride.

He gave the particulars of the meeting, which was so near our lodgings the Allen's could not object.

The excitement of the next morning was not so great I forgot my desire to speak with Isabella, though I was not able to be alone with her till all the dancing was over. But then, as we walked about the room arm in arm, Isabella said, "I do not wonder at your surprise, and I am really fatigued to death. He is such a rattle! Amusing enough, if my mind had been disengaged, but I would have given the world to sit still."

"Then why did not you?"

"Oh! My dear! It would have looked so particular; and you know how I abhor doing that. I refused him as long as I possibly could, but he would take no denial. You have no idea how he pressed me. I begged him to excuse me, and get some other partner—but no, not he. After aspiring to my hand, there was nobody else in the room he could bear to think of, and it was not that he wanted merely to dance, he wanted to be with me. Oh! Such nonsense! I told him he had taken a very unlikely way to prevail upon me, for, of all things in the world, I hated fine speeches and compliments. And so—and so then I found there would be no peace if I did not stand up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him, might take it ill if I did not. And your dear brother, I am sure he would have been miserable if I had sat down the whole evening. I am so glad it is over! My spirits are quite jaded with listening to his nonsense. And then, being such a smart young fellow, I saw every eye was upon us."

It appeared she had enjoyed the attention—that much was clear to me. I could only say, "He is very handsome indeed."

"Handsome! Yes, I suppose he may be. I dare say people would admire him in general, but he is not at all in my style of beauty. I hate a rosy complexion and dark eyes in a man. However, he is very well. Amazingly conceited, I am sure. I took him down several times, you know, in my way."

"I certainly hope so. I cannot think well of a man who attempts to steal your attention from that where it belongs. Perhaps his visit will not be long."

Isabella said only, "perhaps."


	25. 1-5 March 1798

Indeed, I discovered early the next morning that his visit had no end in sight. The two gentleman rode easy at first, but soon discovered my predilection for speed. Poor Medusa had been cooped up for ages, with only perfunctory exercise from the stable lads, that she was near to bursting with energy.

There was little talk, except to renew the appointment for the next day and relate Captain Tilney's plans. He was not going anywhere, it appeared.

Isabella sent a note soon after I returned, requesting I join them at Edgar Buildings mid-morning. I did so, grateful more than once that Mr. Thorpe was no longer in town.

"James second letter has just arrived!" Isabella told me upon joining her in the parlor. I so wished for you to be here when I opened it."

I expressed my interest in hearing the contents. Indeed, I was more than a little curious as to my brother's inheritance, the subject never being broached in my presence. I knew we lived comfortably, but that did not give me any notion of what expectations there might be when I marry. I was the fourth of ten children after all, and it could not be any large sum if my father divided his holdings by ten.

My curiosity was soon put to rest. Isabella had scanned the letter. "A living of four hundred pounds a years is promised, and an estate of at least the same value as part of his inheritance in time. But James writes that he is legally unable to take up the living until he is three and twenty years of age. What—but that is two or three years hence! Oh, but what does this all mean? Mayn't we be married immediately?"

"It seems not, my dear. Mr. Morland has behaved vastly handsome indeed," Mrs. Thorpe said, looking anxiously at her daughter. "I only wish I could do as much. One could not expect more from him, you know. If he finds he can do more by and by, I dare say he will, for I am sure he must be an excellent good-hearted man. Four hundred is but a small income to begin on indeed, but your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so moderate, you do not consider how little you ever want, my dear."

"It is not on my own account I wish for more," Isabella said, "but I cannot bear to be the means of injuring my dear Morland, making him sit down upon an income hardly enough to find one in the common necessaries of life. For myself, it is nothing, I never think of myself."

"I know you never do, my dear, and you will always find your reward in the affection it makes everybody feel for you. There never was a young woman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you, and I dare say when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child—but do not let us distress our dear Catherine by talking of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so very handsome, you know. I always heard he was a most excellent man, and you know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a suitable fortune, he would have come down with something more, for I am sure he must be a most liberal-minded man."

"Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to do what they like with their own money."

They were implying my father had promised less due to her lack of fortune? I could not believe it they would think such a thing.

"I am very sure," I said, "that my father has promised to do as much as he can afford. We do not live grandly. And as for my brother's needs, why, they shall be met ten fold, especially with the woman he loves by his side. If you settle near us especially, he will be able to continue to use my father's stable and carriage. And my dear, you are so terribly frightened of horses, I cannot imagine you would be upset in the least if the horses were kept elsewhere! Why you shall be as comfortable as feathers in a pillow!"

Isabella recollected herself. "As to that, my sweet Catherine, there cannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that makes me just at present a little out of spirits. I hate money, and if our union could take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out. There's the sting. The long, long, endless two years and half that are to pass before your brother can hold the living."

"Yes, yes, my darling Isabella," said Mrs. Thorpe, "we perfectly see into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the present vexation, and everybody must love you the better for such a noble honest affection."

My discomfort was lessened somewhat, but their insinuations regarding my father had stung. I had no reason to believe they would not be happy upon four hundred a year, and though I did pity them the long wait, I knew they would weather it out if they truly loved. James soon followed his letter, arriving that evening, and was received very kindly. Isabella and James were inseparable after that, and as Mr. Thorpe remained absent, I was drawn into their schemes very little.

The week that followed was the most restful of my time in Bath. My rides with the Tilney brothers continued daily, which elated Mrs. Allen to no end!—and my days fell into a comfortable rhythm. I usually walked to Meyler &amp; Sons near the pump room every other day, as they had a vast selection of Gothic novels, many of which were on the list Isabella had compiled.

It was during this week that I really grew close to Eleanor. She and I walked together often, and many of my visits to the subscription library were in her company.

About a week after James return, I had just returned from my morning ride when I saw a man on horseback a few steps from the entry to my lodgings. It wasn't until I saw the falcon on his shoulder that I realized he was the man with whom Eleanor had met secretly.

A gentle touch on the reigns signaled to Medusa to slow her step even further as we approached. Mr. Brearly noticed my approach, and came forward.

"Miss Tilney, I do hope you'll forgive me for lurking in this devilish way. I was hoping to catch you upon your return." A curled lock of gold fell into his face, though it was hardly noticed.

"You have succeeded. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Brearly? I'm afraid you just missed the Tilneys."

"Intentionally, I assure you. The presence of Frederick has made it quite impossible to meet privately with Henry. Quite frustrating, as his counsel was the sole reason I returned. Well…that and to have another glimpse of Eleanor." He smiled, ruefully.

A snorted laugh from a pair of walkers caught his attention, and he watched them warily for a few seconds as they continued by.

"Is anything the matter? I can send Mr. Tilney a message to meet you somewhere—or better yet, I could send one to Eleanor. No one would think anything of that."

He looked back at me. "That is exactly what I wished to ask. I know I am imposing terribly upon you—"

"You really aren't," I said. "Eleanor is very dear to me, and it is clear from the other day that you are not insignificant to her. Name the place and time, and I shall make sure they know of it within the hour."

"Sydney Gardens, at one o'clock. I shall be on foot, near the labyrinths edge."

Half an hour after I dispatched the promised message, I received this reply from Milsom Street while at the breakfast table:

C,

Henry and I will call for you at half past twelve. I do hope you will be able to join us.

-E

I looked up from the unexpected words. My heart beat quick with excitement. It was my first invitation to a clandestine meeting, and I was not going to miss it.


	26. 5 March 1798

I walked out with the Tilneys without ado, waiving goodbye to Mrs. Allen as usual. The gardens were just up the street, and it was only a few minutes walk before we were inside.

"Now tell me Eleanor," I said, "why did you wish me to be here? I did feel he had private business to discuss."

Before she could speak, Mr. Tilney broke in. "He will not object—he has drawn you into his business himself by approaching you this morning. Besides, we could not go out without having some kind of alibi. Had we said we were going to Sydney Gardens alone, then Fred or my father might have joined in. But with your presence, they were far less likely to do so."

"Is my company so objectionable?" I said, the picture in my mind less than flattering.

"Not at all, dear," said Eleanor. "They view the three of us as an impenetrable clan you know."

A look passed between her and her brother. Then he said, "the truth is, he sees me as a chaperon for you and Eleanor, and is grateful to escape parading his sister around."

"We do not need—" I began.

"—a chaperon, yes I know," he said. "But you must allow for the convenience of his assumption."

We had been steadily walking down the main path inside the gardens when the labyrinth came into view. It's hedge looked high enough to prevent even the tallest man from seeing over it. But at this distance, I could see something above the hedge within the maze that reflected the midday sun quite spectacularly.

A young boy stood at its entrance selling leaflets. Mr. Brearly walked out a ways in front of us, a group of brightly dressed ladies hiding his presence until now. He stopped to buy a map from the boy, then examined it closely for a moment, turning his back to us. Another group of tourists passed between us. By the time they passed, we were only a few steps from the boy, but Mr. Brearly was nowhere to be seen.

"Where has he gone?" Eleanor said, concern in her voice.

Mr. Tilney said, "Inside, I believe," and quickened his step toward the boy.

"A map sir? Only a sixpence. You wouldn't want to get lost inside."

An exchange was made. After glancing a moment at the map, I saw a flicker of interest come into his eye. He pocketed the leaflet and gestured for us to enter the labyrinth.

We continued in silence another minute before Eleanor burst out impatiently. "How are we to find him in this maze? He said he would meet us at the entrance, did he not?"

"Yes, I'm sure that is what he said," I said.

"Ladies—he did just as he said. He did meet us, though indirectly. He knew we were watching, else he would not have left this with the boy."

He held up the pocketed leaflet. Inside, the plans to the labyrinth were laid out in detail. There were several gazebos, benches, and other points of interest on the map. And, in one particular area near the center of the map, there was a rough X drawn in heavy pencil.

"I can only assume this is the same map Thomas purchased. He must have marked this meeting location, then gave it back to the boy with instructions to give it to us."

The maze was not wide enough for the three of us to walk abreast. Mr. Tilney walked ahead of us while Eleanor and I walked arm in arm.

"This meeting is growing more and more mysterious," I said. "Is his face so widely known that he must take such tactics to hide his presence in Bath?"

"No," said Eleanor, "And this excessive secrecy gives me great discomfort. Why was he so impatient to see us that he sought you out, Catherine? It strikes me now that he could easily have posted a letter to Henry. My father has not forbidden communication between them…only with myself."

I considered my words. "He had been waiting for a chance to meet with Mr. Tilney, in particular, but found he was never out without Captain Tilney. Though I know not how long he has been in town. I daresay he would not have involved me had I not been so conveniently at hand, as a member of the riding party."

"If he wanted me specifically, then he may indeed be in trouble," Mr. Tilney said with some gravity. "I can only—"

Mr. Brearly himself walked into our hedgerow. "Come, let us continue this way."

He lead us a few more minutes to a white gazebo, quite in the opposite direction.

Once we were settled, he clasped Mr. Tilney's hand, and thanked him sincerely for coming. "I'm most obliged to you all. I am always happy to see you again, Miss Morland, and you—" looking at Eleanor, "—my dear."

"What is going on Thomas?" said Eleanor, as she pushed herself between him and her brother, "I insist on your explaining yourself. Why are you acting like an escaped felon? My father does not have spies in Bath, I assure you."

Her palms on his chest, he wrapped her wrists with his hands. It was an intimate gesture, one that showed me once and for all what was between these two. The deepest of attachments.

"Dearest Eleanor," he said, his gaze steady on her, "I've ran afoul of some unsavory types, I'm afraid. They followed me here from Salisbury. I only saw them by chance whilst I was keeping watch on Milsom Street for Henry to leave unattended. And now they know we are connected and I cannot be seen with you—by anyone."

"That explains why you sought out Miss Morland," said Mr. Tilney. "Did you step on the wrong toes in your investigation?"

"That's the way of it. I went out to the site, and examined the area thoroughly. I found matching striations in the foundation and monolith base, as I expected, but the grooves were far deeper than I have seen in other applications. I expected a little more weathering, assuming the foundation gradually came loose over time. Word had spread among locals of the investigation, and I had an audience during the whole of it."

"Your reputation is no small thing," said Mr. Tilney. "Your presence might have rattled anyone connected."

"What reputation?" I said. "I have never heard of you. What is it that you do?"

Mr. Brearly smiled. "It's a reputation known well in only certain circles. I've done a number of forensic engineering cases of late, and brought down more than one person of high rank. I have made enemies. It is one of many reasons General Tilney wishes me stay away from his family."

He turned to Mr. Tilney. "I simply need to lose their tail. I have had great difficulties doing so. I have no training in concealment."

"Did they see you with Miss Morland this morning, I wonder?" said Mr. Tilney.

"It is possible."

"Blast. If only we were in London—the hackney system would make this so easy. When do you wish to leave?"

"As soon as possible," he said. "There are serious repercussions to my findings that I must report to my superiors in Bristol."

"Will they not just find you there?" said Mr. Tilney.

"Yes, eventually, which is why I need to move quickly on the case so the authorities can become involved. And they are likely waiting at the exit of the gardens. I doubt they entered the maze, but on the chance they questioned the boy and did, I took you to a different area than I marked."

"I see." Mr. Tilney looked deep in thought.

"What about the countryside? Is your horse fast enough to outrun them?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I haven't half the skills of Henry here."

"I have. That is, I could outrun him easily on my own horse, and your friends too."

Mr. Brearly looked dumbfounded. "What are you saying?"

I shrugged. "I could pretend to be you and out run them."

Mr. Tilney stared at me as though I'd grown a third arm. "I admire your gallantry, Miss Morland, but though you may ride as quickly as a man, you could never sit like one. Even at a distance, I would know you for a woman."

"But I can ride astride—at home I do so nearly as often as side saddle." I said this without thinking—and wished it unsaid immediately, a blush threatening.

"Astride? I had forgotten about that aspect. No, I rather referred to your…poise."

My face became an inferno. "Wha-what poise? I have none at all, I assure you."

Mr. Tilney smiled to himself before addressing the group. "The simplest plan will be the most effective. And I've got one that requires no decoy."

We soon exited the maze and made our way to the nearby bridge. The area was very secluded, with high hedges bordering the water. Mr. Tilney diverted our path to hedges beside the bridge. Squeezing through the gap, we made it to the opposite side of the hedge. Below us, I realized, was the recently constructed Avon Canal.

"A brilliant notion, Henry," said Mr. Brearly. "I feel foolish for not having thought of it myself."

"The most difficult part will be lowering ourselves onto the ledge below." Mr. Brearly began to object, and Mr. Tilney gave him a look. "You need an accomplice, and I am more than happy to oblige, though I would rather not have to swim if it can be helped. There should be a place to come ashore not far from here—the canal has only been partially constructed after all."

"Really Henry, I can manage—"

"Do let me join in the fun. I've been cooped up for ages. I shall be back by nightfall, and the ladies will draw less attention just the two of them."

Eleanor and I had a good laugh watching them attempt to climb down into the canal. They soon managed, however, and dropped out of sight. We listened for a splash, but were granted no such reward. They were out of sight, out of earshot, and there was nothing more for us to do but leave.

For all the brave face she wore, Eleanor was quite rattled as we walked out. "I do hope he may get away safely. But it worries me so that he is being followed! I wonder that he does not go to the authorities here? It is all so very distressing."

Her gush of words kept on. I said nothing, though I might have guessed at several of the answers. Instead, I took her arm and hugged her close. I knew she had as much faith in Henry as I did—probably more—but it could not outweigh the concern over her loved one.

We dined together, and by the time we parted, I had cheered her into somewhat better spirits.

"You must send word when your brother returns," I said, "if it's not too much trouble, that is."

She hugged me tightly. "Of course I will. I begin to think you are the sister I never had."

I thought of those words many times that day. And when the note of Henry's return home arrived shortly after dinner had ended, I thought of them again.


	27. 8 March 1798

The Allens, I knew, intended for their stay in Bath to be one of six weeks, the last of which had begun. I was elated to learn from Mrs. Allen that they had extended their lease for an additional two weeks. Their reasons were not disclosed, but I knew from her smirkings whenever I returned from an outing with the Tilneys that she believed Henry was someone who might be counted on. The daily rides had not helped her to set aside her hope of Henry and I forming an attachment, and the Caption was a topic she mused on often. She often looked for him when we were out. She had only once managed to engage him in conversation, making his company all the more desirable. My confession to her regarding my feelings for Sir Harry seemed to have been forgotten.

I made no rush to correct her assumptions. My friendship with Eleanor was something special to me—a connection unlike the one I had with Mariah or Isabella. I did not wish for us to be parted. She made me feel valued for who I was, and did not delight in tricks or quizzing, which I now detested.

On the day of the extension, I made haste to share this news with Eleanor. The additional fortnight would grant us a great many happy days, I knew, but the inevitable end was still not far off. I visited her at home, bursting with news.

I ran to Eleanor's side on the settee. "I put off telling you, my dear, that I was to leave Bath this week, but now I am granted two more. The Allens have extended their lease this very morning—and more delightful news I cannot imagine. Oh—what fun we shall have!"

"Yes," her voice quavered, "that is, I must tell you my father has just determined upon quitting Bath in one week's time."

Such a blow was this! My face fell with the news. "In one week?"

"Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends' arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home."

"I am very sorry for it," I said dejectedly. "If I had known this before—"

"Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good—it would make me very happy if—"

The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which I was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of our corresponding. After addressing me with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?"

"I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."

"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it." He turned to me. "My daughter, Miss Morland, has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se'nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home. And being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as yours—but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can be induced to honor us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression. 'Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively place. We can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendor, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending. Yet no endeavors shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable."

Northanger Abbey! Thrilling words to be sure, as I had heard Eleanor mention her home's name only once before. My feelings were wound up to the highest point of ecstasy. My grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have my company so warmly solicited!

I looked back at Eleanor. Her earlier embarrassment put aside, she said with entreaty, "You must say you'll come."

I accepted immediately, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma's approbation. "I will write home directly," I said, "and if they do not object, as I dare say they will not—"

"Indeed," said the General, "I have just returned from waiting upon your excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction. Since they can consent to part with you, we may expect the same from your estimable parents I sincerely hope."

The circumstances of the morning had led my feelings through the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment. But now they were now safely lodged in perfect bliss, with my spirits elated to rapture. For not only would I be so honored to be a guest in Eleanor's home, but Northanger Abbey itself was a great point of interest.

I hurried home to write the letter. It was not until after it was sent, that any possible negative to the situation occurred to me.

I sought out Mrs. Allen in her room.

"I have just now sent along the inquiry to my parents."

She nodded. "It will be a very good situation for you, Catherine, and I am quite sure they will have nothing but an answer in the affirmative."

"Yes." I looked at her, standing in front of the mirror. She had just removed pair of ivory satin gloves from a delicately wrapped package, and was holding them against her skin. "Those look very handsome."

She started, as though realizing for the first time that I could see what she was doing. "Oh, thank you my dear. She fumbled and dropped one, then put them both hastily away.

"Now. Is there anything else, my dear?"

"Well, I have just thought of something that concerns me a little. If a letter may come for me, or a visitor—while I am at Northanger—"

"I will certainly redirect any letters, you need not have mentioned it. But there could hardly be any visitors, why—all who are acquainted with you will know where you have gone."

"Of course." I nodded, feeling more embarrassed with each passing moment. I began to turn away, then turned back and blurted out, "Sir Harry will not know. If he should return…"

Her hands perched on her hips. "Sir Harry Vane-Tempest? Are you still harboring that hope?"

"And why should I not?" I said.

Mrs. Allen's mouth opened, but any words she might have spoken were halted by the entrance of her maid.

I took the opportunity to slip away. Mrs. Allen's feelings on the subject were clear enough. I began to wonder if I, too, should give up on any hope of him. Gratefully, I had no time to think on it. It was not two days before permission arrived from Fullerton, and I was swept up in preparations and planning.


	28. 9 March 1798

The day following that meeting, upon the realization I had less than a week left in Bath, I made up my mind that I absolutely must go and see Farleigh Hungerford Castle. Sir Harry's description had been though of often in the weeks since he related the story of the imprisoned wife.

I had hitherto thought the impediment in my going with Eleanor lay with transportation, primarily that being Eleanor's distaste for riding. But she had revealed that they kept a curricle, which we could easily take out—that is, if Henry agreed to drive it. The seat was wide enough for three, though only just.

Henry did agree. And the morning was still early when we got on our way. In every way, the drive was the opposite of what I had endured with John Thorpe when he tricked me into going halfway to Blaize Castle. For one, the destination was within easy distance of the city—only seven miles. For another, I was pleased to note Henry was an excellent driver. He sat between Eleanor and I, while his horse drew us closer with each step.

"I made inquiries about the castle," Henry said, his gaze pointed toward the spires that were looming in the distance. "Since the restoration of the chapel, it has become a repository of curiosities. We shall see any number of odd things within its walls."

There was very little of the castle left standing. I could see only the foundation of the interior rooms, and but shells of two of the four towers that once stood.

"A ruin of ruins, it appears," said Eleanor.

My eyes devoured every detail. Pamphlets were available at the chapel, which showed a sketch of the original castle and what was in each of the rooms. In addition to the story of the imprisoned wife, I read another of a woman who murdered and then burned her first husband in the castle's oven, so that she might marry the Lord of the castle.

I sought out the tower where the Lady Elizabeth, Walter Hungerford's third wife, was imprisoned for four years. All that was left was the western half, the sun far enough past the zenith to cast where I stood into shadow. There were at least five stories that I counted. With my neck stretched up to look at the top, absorbed in thought, I started violently when Henry—whom I had not heard approach— said, "Wouldn't you have enjoyed being the first wife of such a man?"

I turned quickly. The innocent look plastered on his face did not fool me. "You might have made a less stealthy approach. I do believe you startled me on purpose."

"Perhaps I did," he grinned. "I did well, it would seem." He scrutinized the pamphlet. A teasing glint came into his eye. "They call this the Lady Tower, you know."

"I do know. I saw it myself." He stood only a few feet away, but took a step closer. "I wonder if he kept all his wives in this one, or if he rotated between the towers. Perhaps, the bodies are buried somewhere on this property."

I swallowed. "Or they might have been burned," I said.

"Do you suppose their spirits remained behind? A haunted ruin, after all, such a delicious tale to write home about."

His jab brought my mind out of the clouds. "Haunted indeed, what nonsense. I may enjoy a good novel, but I wouldn't fall for that."

His brows rose. "Oh no? You don't believe someone deceased can haunt the living?"

I hesitated. What of my father? Was he not haunted by the loss of his first love, the beloved Catherine whose letter he always carried with him?

"I suppose haunting could take many forms. The memory alone may torment a person."

His countenance darkened. "I see that you are acquainted with haunting after all."

"And you?" I asked, certain he was hiding something.

Eleanor's approach prevented any reply he might have made. We'd been at the ruin for hours, and it was time to return home. We took some refreshment at a nearby shop, and then went on our way.

I wished we might keep driving and go straight to Northanger Abbey. The visit had whet my appetite for another ancient building, and even more so for the secrets that must lie within. I did not know, but rather hoped, that the Abbey might hold such a mystery.


	29. 11-13 March 1798

And yet, as much as I wished to stare out my window all day and think of the adventure to come, the pump room would be visited. If I went longer than two days without visiting the pump room with Mrs. Allen, there would be questions from her latest acquaintances as to my state of health, whether I had the pox or palsy, or if I had been sent home.

And thus my regular rotation of three visits per week began. The day after the letter from home arrived, I found myself walking with Mrs. Allen one of these visits. It wasn't until Isabella walked in that I realized I'd barely seen her for days.

She lit up at the sight of me and rushed forward. "Catherine, what an age since we have met! I have been so desolate without you, but you know, James is such delightful consolation, and I so enjoy spending time with him."

"I'd rather thought you wished for more of his company than mine, but you should have sent a note."

She pulled me away from Mrs. Allen and led me to a bench between the doors of the pump room. From my seat, I could see all the people flowing in and out at each entrance.

"This is my favorite place," said Isabella in a low voice. "It is so out of the way."

I looked the other way and smiled at her remark. It was hardly out of the way. When I looked back, Isabella's eyes were flashing back and forth from one door to the other, as if in eager expectation.

"Do not be uneasy, Isabella, James will soon be here," I said. Isabella's discomfort without James must be keen indeed for her to act so. "You have chosen the perfect seat, my dear, you will see him straightaway when he comes."

"Psha! My dear creature," she replied, "do not think me such a simpleton as to be always wanting to confine him to my elbow. It would be hideous to be always together. We should be the jest of the place. And so you are going to Northanger! I am amazingly glad of it. It is one of the finest old places in England, I understand. I shall depend upon a most particular description of it."

Her words surprised me—I had expected to share the news of Northanger with her myself. I believed even James to be yet unaware. "Are my plans already known to the gossip mill? I admit myself shocked that anyone could have such an interest. And you shall certainly have the best description in my power to give." Isabella's continued to look at the rooms entrances. "But who are you looking for? Are your sisters coming?"

She waived her hands, and finally focused her eyes on me. "I am not looking for anybody. One's eyes must be somewhere, and you know what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine, when my thoughts are an hundred miles off. I am amazingly absent; I believe I am the most absent creature in the world. Tilney says it is always the case with minds of a certain stamp."

Tilney? Remarkable, that his words of two weeks past should be so easily recollected. "But I thought, Isabella, you had something in particular to tell me?"

"Oh! No indeed, my sweet, but I did so long for your company by my side. Oh but there is something I would ask you. I've received ever so many letters from John of late, and not a single time has he asked about you. I confess myself astonished, as I believed him to be very attached to you. But Catherine, you are such an arch one, I thought he was not asking about you because you had been in a secret correspondence with him. Am I right? Oh, do not keep me in such suspense! Why do you look at me in such a way?"

I closed my mouth, which had fallen open after Isabella's suggestion that I was actually writing to her brother. "I would never correspond with a gentleman in secret. Why would you ever think so? The very thought offends that you would think so low of my character."

"Oh nonsense, I knew half a dozen girls in Tunbridge Wells with secret beaux they wrote to. I longed for one myself."

"I can assure you I am engaging in no such thing with your brother, nor would I ever wish to. I have never shown your brother anything but basic civility, and certainly would not have encouraged him to form an attachment with me."

"It is a great mystery to me then, for I am sure he spoke of you very tenderly before he left. But since you are not writing him after all, I am sure I shall not tease you any further. For what were you to live upon, supposing you came together? You have both of you something, to be sure, but it is not a trifle that will support a family nowadays, and after all that romancers may say, there is no doing without money."

Her talk of money rankled. "You do acquit me, then?"

"What one means one day, you know, one may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter."

"But my opinion of your brother never did alter, it was always the same, if not worse than when we first met. And I can assure you my opinion of him is not what you thought."

"My dearest Catherine," Isabella said, her eyes still on the doors—as though she was not even listening to a word I said— "I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying you into an attachment before you knew what you were about. I do not think anything would justify me in wishing you to sacrifice all your happiness merely to oblige my brother, because he is my brother, and who perhaps after all, you know, might be just as happy without you, for people seldom know what they would be at, young men especially. They are so amazingly changeable and inconstant. What I say is, why should a brother's happiness be dearer to me than a friend's? You know I carry my notions of friendship pretty high. But, above all things, my dear Catherine, do not be in a hurry. Take my word for it, that if you are in too great a hurry, you will certainly live to repent it. Tilney says there is nothing people are so often deceived in as the state of their own affections, and I believe he is very right."

There was no reply I could make to Isabella that would clear me of what she believed I secretly felt for her brother. I was struck by the difference between Isabella and Eleanor. When I told Eleanor she was mistaken in her assumption of my feelings for Henry, she accepted me at my word. But Isabella did not even do me the courtesy of hearing me out.

"Ah!" Isabella said, "here he comes." I looked up and saw Captain Tilney had just walked in at the door nearest our perch. "Never mind," she continued, her voice much louder than before, "he will not see us, I am sure."

The Captain fixed his eyes on us, her loud voice catching his notice. He approached immediately, and took the seat to which Isabella's movements invited him. His first address made Catherine start. Though spoken low, she could distinguish, "What! Always to be watched, in person or by proxy!"

"Psha, nonsense!" was Isabella's answer in the same half whisper. "Why do you put such things into my head? If I could believe it—my spirit, you know, is pretty independent."

"I wish your heart were independent. That would be enough for me."

"My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with hearts? You men have none of you any hearts."

"If we have not hearts, we have eyes. And they give us torment enough."

"Do they? I am sorry for it. I am sorry they find anything so disagreeable in me. I will look another way. I hope this pleases you," —she turned her back on him— "I hope your eyes are not tormented now."

"Never more so—for the edge of a blooming cheek is still in view—at once too much and too little."

I heard all this, and quite out of countenance, could listen no longer. Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and jealous for my brother, I rose up, and saying I should join Mrs. Allen, proposed our walking. But for this Isabella showed no inclination. She was so amazingly tired, and it was so odious to parade about the pump-room, and if she moved from her seat she should miss her sisters. She was expecting her sisters every moment, so that her dearest Catherine must excuse her, and must sit quietly down again.

But I would not. I could be stubborn too, and Mrs. Allen just then coming up to propose their returning home, I joined her and walked out of the pump-room, leaving Isabella still sitting with Captain Tilney. With much uneasiness did I thus leave them. It seemed to me that Captain Tilney was falling in love with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously encouraging him. Unconsciously it must be, for Isabella's attachment to James was as certain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt her truth or good intentions was impossible for me to accept—the happiness of my brother depended on it. And yet, during the whole of our conversation her manner had been odd. I wished Isabella had talked more like her usual self, and not so much about money, and had not looked so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that she should not perceive his admiration! I longed to give her a hint of it, to put her on her guard, and prevent all the pain which her too lively behavior might otherwise create both for him and her brother.

I wrestled with these thoughts—such much I wished to believe Isabella was unaware of Captain Tilney's interest. I could not convince myself entirely, however. It was not my first ill thought of Isabella, but it was by far the most hurtful, and I was ashamed that part of me believed her capable of such deceit.

In the days that followed, I continued to uphold Isabella's innocence in the matter. But I could not help but watch her closely. The result was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature. When I saw her surrounded only by our immediate friends in Edgar's Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so trifling that, had it gone no farther, I would not have noticed. A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of mind which I had never heard of before, would occasionally come across her. But when I saw her in public, admitting Captain Tilney's attentions as readily as they were offered, and allowing him almost an equal share with James in her notice and smiles, the alteration became too positive to be passed over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what my friend could be at, was beyond my comprehension. Isabella could not be aware of the pain she was inflicting, but it was a degree of willful thoughtlessness which I could not but resent. James was the sufferer. I saw him grave and uneasy. For poor Captain Tilney too I was greatly concerned. I thought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment, for, in spite of what I had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behavior was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella's engagement that I could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. I wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make her aware of this double unkindness, but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension was always against me. If I was able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney family became my chief consolation. Their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney's removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But, I soon learned, Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing. He was not to be of the party to Northanger. He was to continue at Bath. When I learned this, I resolved directly to speak to Henry in private.

An opportunity came two days before our departure, while attending a musical assembly, I excused myself at intermission to visit the ladies retiring room. As I left, I gave Henry a rather direct look—one that would make me blush under normal circumstances. As I hoped, he followed me out and I led him to an alcove that was en route to the ladies room.

I brought up Captain Tilney immediately, regretting his evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating Henry to make known her prior engagement.

"My brother does know it," was Henry's answer.

"Does he?" My voice was sharp, and I said again more evenly, "Then why does he stay here?"

He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of the last song performed, but I said eagerly, "Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody's sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again, but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable."

Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that."

"Then you will persuade him to go away?"

"Persuasion is not at command. But pardon me, if I cannot even endeavor to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master."

"No, he does not know what he is about," I said sternly. "He does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable."

"And are you sure it is my brother's doing?"

"Yes, very sure."

"Is it my brother's attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe's admission of them, that gives the pain?"

"Is not it the same thing?"

"I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man's admiration of the woman he loves, it is the woman only who can make it a torment."

I blushed for my friend, and said, "Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father's consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."

"I understand. She is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick."

"Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another."

His eyebrows rose at that. "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little."

After a short pause, I continued with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?"

"I can have no opinion on that subject."

"But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behavior?"

"You are a very close questioner."

"Am I? I only ask what I want to be told."

"But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?"

"Yes, I think so, for you must know your brother's heart."

"My brother's heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at."

"Well?"

"Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man. He has had about a week's acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her."

"Well," I said, after some moments' consideration, "you may be able to guess at your brother's intentions from all this, but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Surely, if your father were to speak to him, he would go."

"My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother's comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe's, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behavior, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this—and you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, 'Do not be uneasy,' because I know that you are so, at this moment. But be as little uneasy as you can. If you have no doubt of the mutual attachment of your brother and your friend—then depend upon it, therefore, that real jealousy never can exist between them. Depend upon it that no disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open to each other, as neither heart can be to you. They know exactly what is required and what can be borne, and you may be certain that one will never tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant."

Henry spoke as if he knew a great deal about the heart. Not for the first time, the thought crossed my mind if he'd been in love once. As for Isabella and James, I did hope that their was no real jealousy, as Henry put it, but I still felt concern. My face must have shown it, as he added, "Though Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a very short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then be their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney's passion for a month."

I took in a long, slow breath, and then released it. "Thank you, Mr. Tilney. I am sorry if you were made uncomfortable by my drawing you here and questioning you relentlessly. I will try to put this out of my mind."

"I am at your service." Then he grinned and bowed in jest. "But I think you had better call me Henry, from now on."

"What? I most certainly shall not." A blush crept up my neck.

His grin widened. "And if I spend more than five minutes in a secluded alcove with a woman, I always insist on using her Christian name. You would not disappoint me?"

"Oh, stop making fun. And from my calculation, we have stood here only four minutes." I resolutely stepped out of the alcove, and turned back to the music hall.

"Nay, it has been nearly ten. But I will let you win, as I am a gentleman after all. On second thought, it probably would not do to return on a first name basis—Eleanor may get ideas into her head."

I turned my head sharply. "No. It would not do at all."

His teasing on such a topic was not something I was prepared for. I knew now he had a sense of humor and wasn't serious in much of his words, but still I wished not to be the butt of his joke. I reached out to grasp the handle to the main hall, only to have Henry block it with his hand. "Only one more request, before I let you go. Pray, don't give that summoning look of yours to any other man. I fear it would be misunderstood."

"That was terribly impolite of me, wasn't it?"

"Impolite isn't the word I was thinking of."

"Excuse me, Mr. Tilney."

"After you, Miss Morland."


	30. 15 March 1798 PART 1

Northanger Abbey: a fearsome name to be sure. I was both excited and paralyzed at its prospect. On the morning of the journey, I bade a heartfelt goodbye to the Allens. Both had become more to me than I could have ever imagined. I was no longer afraid of Mr. Allen, nor did I think Mrs. Allen a simpleton. Her frank discussions with me and care that she took for my well-being surpassed what my own mother could have ever done.

Mr. Allen brought me to the Tilney's before breakfast, and Medusa too, naturally. We sat at table, more elegant even at breakfast than the Allen's had at dinner. The embarrassment I felt during my first weeks in Bath rushed back in full assault. I began to doubt every movement of my fork, every word I spoke. Not five minutes into the meal, I wished I might return to Pulteney Street.

Such was the paralysis I feared for the weeks to come. The wealth and grandeur of the Tilney's was impossible to forget, what with the General always mentioning some great personage or other, the expensive livery of their servants, and the number of dishes served. I was made all the more uncomfortable by the General watching me closely enough to see I was not eating much, and his continual solicitations were exhausting.

Our departure was delayed by the late arrival of Captain Tilney, whom the General gave a terrible lecture—in front of everyone—and I was the topic! I was mortified that he should be lectured on inconveniencing me, when I was not in the least affected.

At length, we set off. I was in the carriage with Eleanor, and the restraint I'd felt over breakfast soon fled. We did not talk a great deal, but chose rather to watch the scenery. Indeed, it was only the second bit of traveling I had ever done. My first time going into Gloucestershire to be sure, and every milestone was thrilling to me.

The journey was thirty miles, split into two legs. We stopped at Petty France for the midday meal and resting of the horses, though were delayed there for two whole hours. The outriders and servants took care of the business of the animals, but I made a point to find Medusa and reassure her. Our party was not entirely agreeable. General Tilney, though so charming at times, seemed always a check upon his children's spirits, and scarcely anything was said but by himself. The observation of which, with his discontent at whatever the inn afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters, made me grow every moment more in awe of him, and the two hour wait felt life four.

When we were at last to leave, the General proposed I take his place in the curricle beside Henry, for "the day is fine, and I am anxious for your seeing as much of the country as possible."

I blushed at the notion of being alone once again in an open carriage with a man, but I did not think the General would have proposed it if he thought it improper. I let that thought guide me past any notions to decline, and I accepted.

His steady driving was soon in evidence, and I felt terribly grand sitting next to such a well dressed driver in a stylish curricle.

"I must thank you, Miss Morland, for befriending my sister in so heartfelt a manner. Your agreement to accompany her to Northanger is a great kindness. She has no female companion, and when father is away, she is sometimes without any companion at all."

"But how can that be?" I said. "Are you not with her?"

"Northanger is not more than half my home. I have an establishment at my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father's, and some of my time is necessarily spent there."

"How sorry you must be for that!"

"I am always sorry to leave Eleanor."

"Yes—but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of the abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very disagreeable."

He smiled, and said, "You have formed a very favorable idea of the abbey."

"To be sure, I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?"

"And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as 'what one reads about' may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry?"

"Oh! yes—I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there would be so many people in the house—and besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens."

"No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire—nor be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that when a young lady is—by whatever means—introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind betray you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber—too lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its size—its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?"

He was joking, I was certain, but the picture he painted was deliciously frightful. "But this will not happen to me, I am sure."

"How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this parting cordial she curtsies off—you listen to the sound of her receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you—and when, with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with increased alarm, that it has no lock."

"Oh! Mr. Tilney, how dreadful! This is just like a book! But it cannot really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy. Well, what then?"

"Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After surmounting your unconquerable horror of the bed, you will retire to rest, and get a few hours unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at farthest the third night after your arrival, you will probably have a violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice to its foundation will roll round the neighboring mountains—and during the frightful gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think you discern—for your lamp is not extinguished—one part of the hanging more violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course to repress your curiosity in so favorable a moment for indulging it, you will instantly arise, and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to examine this mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a division in the tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy the minutest inspection, and on opening it, a door will immediately appear—which door, being only secured by giant bars and a padlock, you will, after a few efforts, succeed in opening—and, with your lamp in your hand, will pass through it into a small vaulted room."

"No, indeed." Acting the part of the terrified young protagonist, I said in an exaggerated tone, "I should be too much frightened to do any such thing."

"What!" His eyebrows rose higher than I thought possible. "Not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off? Could you shrink from so simple an adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted room, and through this into several others, without perceiving anything very remarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in another a few drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some instrument of torture; but there being nothing in all this out of the common way, and your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own apartment. In repassing through the small vaulted room, however, your eyes will be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold, which, though narrowly examining the furniture before, you had passed unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly advance to it, unlock its folding doors, and search into every drawer—but for some time without discovering anything of importance—perhaps nothing but a considerable hoard of diamonds. At last, however, by touching a secret spring, an inner compartment will open—a roll of paper appears—you seize it—it contains many sheets of manuscript—you hasten with the precious treasure into your own chamber, but scarcely have you been able to decipher 'Oh! Thou—whomsoever thou mayst be, into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall'—when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and leaves you in total darkness."

"Oh! No, no—do not say so. Well, go on."

But Henry was too much amused by my interest to be able to carry it farther. He could no longer command solemnity either of subject or voice without laughing, and thus entreated me to use my own fancy in the perusal of Matilda's woes.

"I'm sure I will be very disappointed now when Eleanor gives a room without such amenities. Next you'll be telling me the abbey has no secret passages. And I need a refresher on Romance of the Forest. Your story just now put me in mind of the door Adeline found behind the tapestry in her room, and then there was a memoir too. What an excellent memory you have, Mr. Tilney."

"There is a grand library at Northanger you know. I'm certain Romance of the Forest is on the shelves somewhere."

"Thank you, I may look for it. But tell me who is Matilda? The name sounds familiar, but I cannot recall any novel with a heroine of that name."

Instead of a speedy reply, my question was met with silence. I glanced sideways at Henry's face. There was an astounding hue of red that was blossoming up his neck. It could not be a blush. No, I wouldn't believe it.

"Tell me that is not a blush," I said carelessly.

The squelched pitch of laughter that Henry let out was even more surprising than the potential blush. "I should trust you to always say the uncomfortable thing. It always surprises me, and yet, you are remarkably consistent."

"Oh, I do apologize," I began, mortified by the rudeness of my comment. "I should never have permitted notice of such a thing."

"I did not mean a criticism; a lady who speaks honestly is rare indeed. In exchange, I will give you an honest answer." He cleared his throat, tugging lightly at his cravat. "There are several books I can think of with a Matilda. The heroine to which I intended to refer was that from The Castle of Otranto, arguably the first of the gothic genre. But your question reminded me of The Monk, which has a Matilda of a rather controversial nature."

"Oh! Yes, Mr. Thorpe said once he thought it the only worthwhile novel to come out since Tom Jones."

Henry gave a half smile before saying, "Of course he would think so. The content of each is rather salacious in nature."

It was my turn to blush. "Indeed. I understand now why I was unable to obtain a copy at the circulation library. I was always told it was 'under reserve.'"

He bit his lips together, attempting to prevent a laugh. He failed.

After his chuckles subsided, he said, "It is for the best the tradesmen who run those libraries are discreet. We might all be under the microscope, otherwise."

I raised my brows as the implications of his words became clear.

"Well. Should there ever be a trivia query regarding the Monk, I will know who to ask."

He smiled. "Perhaps, Miss Morland. Perhaps."


	31. 15 March 1798 PART 2

We were nearly there. We soon passed the porters lodge, and I was only afforded a glimpse of the modern structure before us before a scud of rain hit. It was not the Gothic appearance I was picturing. We had trailed the chaise and four the entire journey, and thus the General and Eleanor were already inside, awaiting us. Henry and I sprung from the curricle, rushing inside the abbey walls. We were both very damp indeed. All but my hair was drenched, and my new straw hat would not likely survive the ordeal.

And suddenly we were there, being shown into the common drawing-room, and I was struck by my surroundings. The fireplace, where I had expected the ample width and ponderous carving of former times, was contracted to Rumford, with slabs of plain though handsome marble, and ornaments over it of the prettiest English china. The windows, to which I looked forward to seeing particularly—from hearing the General talk of his preserving them in their Gothic form with reverential care—were yet less than what my fancy had portrayed. To be sure, the pointed arch was preserved—the form of them was Gothic, but every pane was so large, so clear, so light! To an imagination which had hoped for the smallest divisions, and the heaviest stone-work, for painted glass, dirt, and cobwebs—the difference was very distressing.

The General began to talk of the smallness of the room and simplicity of the furniture, where everything being for daily use, pretended only to comfort. I did not agree with his assessment—indeed I felt, Gothic form aside, the room was beyond handsome. I was saved from the description of a costly gilding in another room, however, by his sudden notice of the time. The news was one of great agitation, I perceived, and no sooner had he announced it to us all, Eleanor hurried me away in such a manner that convinced me that the strictest punctuality to the family hours would be expected at Northanger.

We returned back through the large hall which met the front entry, and we ascended a broad staircase of shining oak, which, after many flights and many landing-places, brought us to a long, wide gallery. It was lit by windows that looked into a quadrangle, and Eleanor led me into a chamber opposite one of them.

"I hope you'll find this room comfortable. Please make as little alteration as possible to your dress, as we eat in only a quarter hour." She rushed off, without a backward glance, as though the devil was on her heels.

I surveyed my surroundings. Henry's droll tale so fresh in my mind, I took note of the general cheeriness of the room. The walls were papered, the floor was carpeted, the windows just as downstairs. But indeed, there was no tapestry, and the bedding was bright and not at all funereal. I was struck, however, by a large high chest, which stood in a deep recess beside the fireplace. I wondered—would it be impossible to open, as Henry suggested, or would there be a secret compartment?

A whole minute, or even five, may have passed while I stood deep in thought. I was roused from my stupor by a sudden knock at the door. Eleanor had sent her maid to offer assistance. I dismissed her, realizing I had made no progress at all and thus hurried to throw off my habit and put on my dress. I fear I was too slow, the chest tugged at me, and resisting its mystery caused me to fumble far more than usual.

Finally dressed, I could not recall if Eleanor was to fetch me or not. I listened at the door, and hearing nothing from the gallery, I hurried to the chest, allowing myself this single moment more of delay.

The heavily lid came up—the hinges did not make the slightest of sounds. Inside, I saw nothing more than a white cotton counterpane. This prosaic discovery was too much for me. Though, minutely glad to know where I might find extra linens, I was disappointed in its contents.

Eleanor entered my room at that moment. The concern in her face made me feel doubly retched. Not only had I made us late, but it had been over a nosy and idle search.

Ever polite, Eleanor said, "That is a curious old chest, is it not?"

I hastily closed the lid.

"It is impossible to say how many generations it has been here. How it came to be first put in this room, I know not, but I have not had it moved because I thought it might sometimes be of use in holding hats and bonnets. The worst of it is that its weight makes it difficult to open. In that corner, however, it is at least out of the way."

I blushed, and formed wise resolutions with the most violent dispatch, to amend my foolish notions. Miss Tilney hinted we must go, and in half a minute we ran downstairs and were met by a stony-faced General, pacing the drawing-room. The very instant of our entering, he pulled the bell with violence, and ordered "Dinner to be on table directly!"

His manner made me regret further my action above, and thus I sat pale and breathless, trembling at the emphasis with which he spoke. I feared I was already in disgrace, having not passed even a single hour under his roof.

General Tilney looked at me, and I saw his face regain its usual politeness. I was once again able to breathe, at least until he began scolding his daughter for "so foolishly hurrying her fair friend, who was absolutely out of breath from haste, when there was not the least occasion for hurry in the world."

I shrunk further at those words. And, detesting old chests, I vowed not to again be ensnared by one.

The lecture eventually stopped, and he fell silent, which should have made me relieved, but the silence only enhanced the sounds I was making with the silverware. I had never mastered the art of eating soup without the spoon knocking the bowl, and when I took my next bite, the sound it made positively echoed throughout the cavernous room.

I looked up at Henry, who sat mutely opposite. At our second formal meal together, he was even quieter than at the first.

I was quietly cursing the high ceilings, when the General said, "You must be used to much better-sized apartments at Mr. Allen's?"

I struggled to find a reply, and was swallowing a bite of soup when another bowl rang out in an errant note of discord, then another in short succession. My head turned toward the General, all I knew was the sound came from the left. I held back a smile. Whether Eleanor or Henry, I was relieved.

My mind returned to the General's question. "No, indeed." Who did he think Mr. Allen was? Only the residence of an earl could be any larger. Not that I would ever be able to confirm such a thing. "Mr. Allen's dining parlor is not more than half as large. I have never seen so large a dining room as this."

General Tilney smiled, preening under my flattery. "Why, as I have such rooms, it would be foolish not to make use of them. But, upon my honor, I believe there might be more comfort in rooms of half the size. Mr. Allen's house, I am sure, must be exactly of the true size for rational happiness."

"Well, perhaps you will see it someday." I knew not what else to say to such a strange comment—must he think the Allen's lifestyle as superior to his? I must have done right, as he downright laughed, and was so full of merriment that Eleanor finally got a smile.

A closed my eyes in relief. I could sleep in peace tonight.

But for the storm.

I returned to my room, resolutely avoiding any look toward the chest. One of the windows blew open with a violent gust as I changed and the drapes flew about wildly.

At the window, I wrestled with the pane, struggling to push it back into its place. The wind, mournful with the sounds of the night, and another that stopped my struggle. It sounded as though someone had cried out. I paused and leaned out the window. It was the black pitch of a new moon. My hair caught and blew wildly about, mingling with a few raindrops, but I stilled, waiting for the same sound once again.

Though I waited for several minutes, I did not hear it again. I laid down in bed, the window fastened and the curtains closed. The sound had chilled me, deeply, and I wished for something to read or else to occupy my thoughts for a time. I moved about the room, but could see nothing like a shelf. But, there was a black and yellow japanese cabinet that I had a mind to open. Henry's words from earlier came again to my mind—this cabinet was nearly as majestic as the one he had described.

The cabinet was intricate, with many drawers and storage places. I drew open all of them, by the light of my candle, and peered inside. All was empty—perhaps intended to be, as a storage area for the room's occupant. I would not put it past Henry to be acquainted with this particular piece—and he might have known I'd have been placed in this room, in the family wing, two doors down from Eleanor. His humor was just twisted enough that I determined to check for a secret compartment, just in case.

I searched every square inch of it, finding nothing, but unwilling to return to bed just yet, I opened the drawers once again and checked behind each drawer, pressing against the wood, and feeling inside for anything loose.

At the last drawer, I found success. The side wall slid open, and a narrow drawer full of papers was visible by candle-light. I reached for the papers, but bumped the surface on which my candle sat, pushing it to the ground. The light was instantly extinguished, and the clanking it made as it hit the ground echoed eerily throughout the room. I hurriedly closed the drawers and got into bed.

From the hallway a set of footsteps approached, pausing before my door. I felt my heart beat rapidly and cold sweat beaded my forehead. The person held a light, the glow emanating from the crack under the door. I dared not make a sound. The steps continued, moving further down the hall, wherewith the sound of a door closing reached me.

I slumped, and fell back onto the pillows. Who also shared this hallway? I knew of only Eleanor.

Sleep did not come quickly. Agitated as I was, every flicker of light from the hallway caused me to shiver, and every sound to start. I found peace only in thoughts of Medusa, riding with me through the storm.

And that night, for the first time since I was a child, I dreamed.


	32. 16 March 1798 Part 1

I awoke gradually, the remnants of the dream fading as I stepped back into reality. I opened my eyes to darkness. Was it still night?

The silence of the house testified to the earliness of the hour. I sat up in bed, my skin clammy and hair damp. I threw off the covers, the chill of the night sending the hairs on my neck strait up. I ran my fingers through my hair, shaking it out I hopes it would dry and stop the chills. I stepped carefully to the window and pushed back the curtain. Though it was still nearly full dark, hints of gray were penetrating the gloom. Dawn was near. I tied back one of the panels and returned to the bed, slumping under the covers.

My thoughts returned to what I had dreamt. A castle, a woman, a prison—and a cruel husband. The woman's face I could not recall with any clarity. Though she had cried out for help, over and over, but no one heard. She was long forgotten, except by her captor. A chill crept down my spine, the covers offering little balm to the cold that had set into my bones.

The husband had finally come, only to spout insults and mockery. The words he spoke as he left her—the words that caused me to awaken—were, "Goodbye, Mrs. Tilney."

I knew nothing of Mrs. Tilney other than that Mrs. Allen said she had died long ago.

Could it be possible that she was still alive, imprisoned here in the abbey?

My mind went blank with the possibility, and I sat frozen in the silence.

The sound of my breathing began to fill my ears, as though I was hanging from the outside of my window, my tenuous hold tested by a turbulent wind. I put my hands over my ears, the volume almost painfully loud—but the motion only amplified the noise.

The sound of silence was terrifying.

I tapped quietly on the headboard, scratched my nails on the sheets, clicked my tongue, anything I could think of break up the crushing sound in my ears.

And then something hit my window, and I screamed.

There was a thud from another room. I held very still and waited, praying it was nothing…but a few seconds later I heard heavy footfalls hurrying down the hall. They stopped outside my door.

I stared hard at the door, willing whatever was behind it to disappear. Embarrassment was already creeping up my neck. It was a long, long moment.

Then the steps resumed once more, getting quieter until I heard a gentle click of a door latch.

My shoulders sagged in relief and I exhaled a long held breath. I went to the window and pushed back the curtain, determined to look and see if something was there.

My eyes searched the pane, and I moved to the next before I spotted it. Blood and feathers stuck to the glass. The blood was a faint smear, growing fainter, as the wet remnants of the storm blew across the glass from the roof and surrounding trees.

I stayed at the window until the first rays of morning became visible. I was determined to be sensible, no more fits of fancy. In the time I waited for the sun to rise, I had regained most of my wits, but before I could become the lady of sense I so desired, I had to do just one more silly thing.

I made my way back to the cabinet, the one I'd searched the evening before. As silently as I could manage, I reopened the series of compartments leading to the narrow drawer and pulled it out. A roll of paper lay within, the edges faintly yellowed. I paused, listening hard for any noises. There were none.

I unrolled the stack of papers and began to read. It was nothing but an inventory of linens. No! I was sure there was something of great import here. I hastily looked at the next three pages—they described shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats. Frantic, I looked at another sheet, which began, "To poultice chestnut mare"—was nothing more than a farrier's bill!

Silently cursing Henry's name, I rolled up the stack and put it back in the chest. His tales had led me on a merry dance. I blamed him entirely for the mortification I felt the evening prior when Eleanor discovered me searching, for my fright this morning, and for this final humiliation. I suppose he had known of these old papers and laughed to himself that I might believe I searched for something more. He, who knew of my delight in ancient buildings and mysterious happenings, had to have known where his lengthy discourse would lead. I felt manipulated.

I dressed with haste and made my way down the breakfast parlor, as Eleanor had pointed it out to me the evening before. Such unpleasant reflections could be left behind me, as I was determined to behave sensibly and never to be taken in by Henry again.

Upon entering the parlor, I was momentarily disoriented. Before I could get my bearings, Henry's voice assaulted me.

"I see you have survived your first night in this old pile of bricks," he said. I spun about, discovering he was the sole other occupant.

"As you see," I said, in a clipped tone. I served myself from the sideboard, than sat at the table. He held the only newspaper in the room. I cleared my throat. "Might there be a spare page for me?"

"Perhaps, but what will I get in return?"

I started in alarm. "Excuse me?"

"If I let you have some of my morning paper, it will be wrinkled when you give it back, and I never read a wrinkled paper."

"Do you not?"

He scrunched his nose in extreme distaste. "What gentleman would?"

"Ah, even so, perhaps I might have what you have already read?" I thought it very likely he was having me on, but I was not willing to risk yet another misunderstanding.

"I'm afraid not, as I have only read the first page. I am not prepared to let you have the last page as well, which, as you well know, is the best one."

I stood up and moved my chair closer to the end of the table where he sat. I could see the back of the paper from here. "Ah. Yes, I too find sales by auction especially interesting."

He set a loose page down in front of me. "There you are. I have no interest in this page."

I looked at the paper insert. "It's an advertisement for gentleman's shaving cream."

"As you say."

I crumpled it up, then ate for a minute in silence, reading several of the auctions on the sly.

He turned the page and began reading yet another section.

"The least you could do is read the back page so that you might give me that part."

"But then I might not ever get anything in return."

"Whatever could you possibly want in return? I refuse to get you any breakfast."

He began to separate the pages of the paper. "Only answer a question of my choosing, and this shall be yours." He dangled a portion of the paper in front of me.

"Ask your question."

"I would never ask you to get me breakfast. As it is, I ate long ago. I have been awake for some time now. Perhaps quite as long as you."

"I haven't any idea how long you since you awakened. Why would I be aware of such information?" I said.

"It was your scream that awoke me. There is no point in denying it." He waived away my indignant expression. "What I wish to know is, why you screamed? Did Miranda pay you a visit?"

I was saved the embarrassment of attempting an answer by the entrance of the General. His smiling compliments were a great contrast to his son's scowl. I snatched the paper before Henry could take it back.

"Have you been enjoying the breakfast set, Miss Morland? I chose it myself."

I cast my attention to the plate I had before me, the details of which I had not noticed. "Oh, yes, a very elegant one."

"I am enchanted that you are approve of my taste. Neat and simple is my guiding principle, and I think it right to encourage the manufacture of my country." He took a sip of tea. "To my uncritical palate, tea tastes as well from the clay of Staffordshire, as from that of Dresden. This set is quite old, purchased two years ago. I saw some beautiful specimens when last in town, and had I been a victim of vanity I would have been tempted to order a new set."

I nodded, searching for an appropriate response. "I would never have believed it to be two years old."

The General laughed. "You flatter me! I trust, however, that an opportunity may soon occur of selecting a new set—thought not for myself."

My thoughts went to Eleanor. A new set would certainly be purchased upon her marriage. The General could not know the identity of the man, but I was happy that he thought Eleanor might soon be wed.

Eleanor joined us after that. The discussion turned to plans for the day, and I learned Henry would be leaving immediately for Woodston for several days.

We attended him in the hall as he mounted his horse and left.

The General glanced my way, then said to Eleanor, "This is a somewhat heavy call upon your brother's fortitude. Woodston will make but a sombre appearance today."

I hoped Eleanor might be able to show me over the house, but the General now offered himself as my conductor. "And when we have gone over the house, the pleasure of accompanying you into the shrubberies and garden must be mine as well. But, perhaps it might be more agreeable to make those your first object—the weather is at present so very favorable, and its continuance uncertain."

A response was ready at my lips, but then the General spoke to Eleanor. "My dear, which would your fair friend prefer? I can discern in Miss Morland's eyes a judicious desire to make use of the fine weather. The abbey will always be dry, I suppose I can defer my delight in showing it to you until another time. I will fetch my hat and attend you both in a moment."

With that he left. The flabberghast I felt was unequal to the apology I saw in Eleanor's eyes. "My dear," she began, "I am sorry to delay showing you the house. I must go along with my father's wishes in this matter. Do not be uneasy on my father's account. He always walks out at this time of day."

"Of course—it is nothing. As he says, the abbey will always be dry—we will go another time."

My disappointment was not concealed as well as I hoped, I fear Eleanor sensed it. But I did manage a few smiles and witticisms that soon had her smiling again. What I did not show was my confusion regarding Miss Tilney's embarrassment. Could there be any unwillingness on the General's side to show me the abbey, or was this change of plan due solely to his habitual time of walking? A strange time for a walk it was for certain. It was very provoking—I was so very impatient to see the house!

I put on my bonnet, and thought from breakfast occurred to me. "Tell me, Eleanor, does Hen—pardon me, does Mr. Tilney prefer a pressed newspaper? He made a rather odd comment before you joined us."

An unexpected laugh bubbled from Eleanor's lips. "Oh, I has he let you in on his grand joke?"

"What joke?"

Eleanor led me the the front lawn as she replied. "Only that, he pretends a great irritation in sharing the newspaper. So far as pressing it or not, I very much doubt he cares a whit about it—I have never noticed the papers at Woodston to be pressed."

"Have you spent a great deal of time there?" The estate was growing more interesting the longer Henry was absent.

"A little. I would like to be there more often. We shall have to make a goal of it during your visit here. If anything, it will allow Henry the opportunity to invite you to use his christian name. I hope this does not offend you, but hearing you call him Mr. Tilney strikes me as quite funny. Why, I feel you are my sister and such titles catch me unawares."

"And I feel the same closeness to you, Eleanor. But, your brother and I are more at odds. I do not think I could ever think of him as I do my own brother."


	33. 16 March 1798 Part 2

The General soon joined us, and the tour began. My expectations were quite high, I admit, but the building and grounds delighted me beyond what I could have expected. I could not help but heap praise upon all I saw, and the General was most gracious in accepting my compliments—so much that he appeared to be uneasy with something unless I should say I liked it.

We saw the building surrounded by a large court, knolls of old trees and steep woody hills. Next, the kitchen-garden was admired, and his recitation of the acreage—the number far higher than Mr. Allen's and my father's combined—made me feel properly humbled as I was led from site to site. Though he continued to hang upon my words of flattery, I began to feel patronized. My origins were nothing compared to these—and his continual mention of the grandeur of the property and the value of the holdings began to wear on me. I did genuinely admire all that I saw, but I felt more and more that my words were taken for granted, that I had I not uttered such things, the tour would end where I stood, and I should be permitted to see nothing further.

My steps grew more hesitant and weary. The conflict building within was not something I was prepared for. I had felt honored in every way, the General could not have been more accommodating and kind to such a one as I. A wave of shame passed over me, and I was grateful Henry was nowhere near. I felt certain he would have known somehow what I had been thinking. At least Eleanor gave me the benefit of the doubt, as she had with the trunk the evening before.

"But where are you going, Eleanor?" the General said, and I realized I had not been paying attention. "Why do you choose that cold, damp path to the tea-house. Miss Morland will get wet. Our best way is across the park."

"This is so favorite a walk of mine," she said, "that I always think it the best and nearest way. But perhaps it may be damp."

I fixed my attention on the walk in question. It was a narrow winding path through a thick grove of old Scotch firs. Its gloomy aspect confirmed it as something I was eager to enter, and I could not—even under the General's disapprobation—prevent myself from stepping forward.

He at once perceived my inclination, and after again urging his plea to my health in vain, gave up the matter. I thought he would follow us and begin a thorough description of the age of the trees and any majestic facts that might accompany them, but he would not come with us. He excused himself, saying he would take another course, and walked off.

I stared after him in surprise.

"That was rather sudden," I said as we went on, my mood lifting.

"This was my mother's favorite walk. I am particularly fond of it. I used to walk here so often with her! Though, I never loved it then as I have loved it since. A that time indeed I used to wonder at her choice, but her memory endears it now."

"And ought it not also endear it to her husband? And yet he would not enter it."

Eleanor continued silent. I said, "Her death must have been a great affliction."

"A great and increasing one," she said, in a low voice. "I was only thirteen when it happened, and though I felt my loss perhaps as strongly as one so young could feel it, I did not, I could not, then know what a loss it was." She stopped for a moment, and then added, with great firmness, "I have no sister, you know—and though Henry—though my brothers are very affectionate, and Henry is a great deal here, which I am most thankful for, it is impossible for me not to be often solitary."

"To be sure you must miss him very much."

"But a mother would have been always present. A mother would have been a constant friend; her influence would have been beyond all other." The shadows of the firs hung over us.

"Was she charming and handsome? Is there any picture of her in the abbey?"

"Oh, yes."

"Do you know why had she been so partial to that grove? Was she..a very happy person? I take a strange delight in macabre settings, but I think a place like this must be avoided by many in a sunny mood."

"I cannot say."

Eleanor's reluctance to comment on her mother and fathers' relationship was clear, but I could not tell as to the reason. Of Mrs. Tilney's unhappiness in marriage, I felt persuaded. The general certainly had been an unkind husband. He did not love her walk: could he therefore have loved her? And besides, handsome as he was, there was a something in the turn of his features which spoke his not having behaved well to her.

My thoughts ran wild, as unchecked as the firs growth which surrounded us. In the back of my mind, the remnants of terror from the nights dream still dangled.

"Her picture, I suppose," blushing at my daring but unable to resist the question, "hangs in your father's room?"

"No. It was intended for the drawing room, but my father was dissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had no place. Soon after her death I obtained it for my own, and hung it in my bed-chamber—where I shall be happy to show it you. It is very like."

Here was another proof of the General's misconduct toward his wife. A portrait—very like—of a departed wife, not valued by the husband! He must have been dreadfully cruel to her!

The end of the walk was now in sight. The General awaited us some fifty yards beyond. His look, which I had always told myself I found handsome and charming, now I recognized those notions had been procured by his consistent flattery of my every word and act. For a time I had been fooled by his smiles. His profile had an edge to it that I could not like, and though I told myself he was the same as he had been all the weeks of our acquaintance, I felt uneasy at his nearness. Were it not for Eleanor, I would not have gone on, so violent my feelings had become. I took comfort in her presence, and, rather, determined never to be alone with him.

As it was, I made more progress in the next hour toward maintaining a pleasing countenance in a difficult situation than I had in all my time in Bath. As justified as I felt my altered opinion, I could not allow it to be detected. However, I was unable to feign the same pleasure in the objects I was being shown, and my walk showed symptoms of lassitude that were perceived immediately. The General became immediately concerned for my health—which made me feel some guilt in my assessment of his character—and insisted upon our urgent return to the house, whereupon he would follow in a quarter hour. We had nearly made our escape before Eleanor was called back, and she returned to my side with the charge that she was not to show me the Abbey until his return.

His unease of my seeing the Abbey without his presence made me once again on my guard. His insistence was remarkable, and I was determined not to be taken in by his former charms again.

Thus, an hour later, when he finally came in, his prompt response that he would show me the house directly did not alter my state of mind. Though there was much to appreciate during that tour, there two things in particular. The first was that Henry's room was in the same hall as mine and Eleanor's, and the General's was in quite another part of the house. That meant that the person who had come running to my door that morning was almost certainly Henry. There was one additional bedchamber in the hall we shared which I could only assume belonged to Frederic.

But the second particular thing I learned was that the General would not allow the party to venture into the room that had been Mrs. Tilney's—the room in which, according to Eleanor—she had died.

When Eleanor and I were next alone, she showed me her mother's portrait in her own bedroom. I expressed my wish to be able to see her mother's room another time. She said, "The General must be away from home if we are to go and see it."

"It remains as it was, I suppose?"

"Yes, entirely, these last nine years."

"You were with her, I suppose, to the last?"

"No," said Eleanor, sighing, "I was unfortunately away from home. Her illness was sudden and short, and before I arrived it was all over."

My blood ran cold. That meant—no, I needed a moment to think. My mind could not process the horror. The possibility that Mrs. Tilney was still alive sprang to the forefront of my mind.. I could have been steps—mere steps!—away from the door to her chamber. I thought back to the many doors that went unidentified by the General. There was one portion of the Abbey especially I thought likely—the furthest from the family rooms, and the most ancient looking side of the quadrangle could house any number of secrets.

After dinner, the General made a point of sending us to our rooms while he argued the necessity of staying up to read several pamphlets. I thought his behavior very odd—why should he need to stay up half the night reading stupid pamphlets?

That evening, I dressed quickly for bed but was unable to sleep for the fret into which my mind had fallen. The side of the quadrangle that I deemed suspicious—which included the mysterious bedchamber I had been barred from entering—could be seen through the lower windows opposite the gallery window across from my room. I checked twice, peering out the door, half expecting a candle to be lit on the opposite side that would confirm my suspicion. The clock struck eleven and I surmised my observations were pointless when conducted at this hour. If indeed the lady of the house was kept a secret prisoner, the General would certainly not visit at a time of night when he could be scene by anyone.

After midnight I would look again. I experienced many feelings as I waited. Shame, embarrassment, and anger to name a few. While the surmises I held would indeed be laughable to one who knew not the particulars, it was far kinder than the alternative deduction that the lady's demise was unfairly hastened by the General in the absence of his children. As much as I wished I was wrong in my thoughts, they were supported by such appearances as made their dismissal impossible.

A great yawn caught me unawares, and I decide to rest—sitting up mind you—against the headboard while I waited. And thus it was not so very surprising that midnight came and went, and I none the wiser, having fallen asleep sometime before its arrival.


	34. 17-18 March 1798

The next day afforded us no opportunity to explore the mysterious apartments. As it was Sunday, we attended morning and afternoon service. The time in between was not our own as it was spent in the General's company. My back ached from the poor sleep I had gotten the night before, the headboard had made a poor substitute for a pillow. My feelings of impatience grew as time passed—I felt certain that if I could gain access to Mrs. Tilney's chamber that there would be some clue as to whether my dark surmises had merit.

The following morning, the General went out on an early walk. I suddenly ached to see Medusa. I had been so preoccupied with the mystery surrounding Northanger that I had not yet been able to take her out. I promised myself I would go a little later, as I was determined to ask Eleanor to show me Mrs. Tilney's rooms while her father was out.

She readily agreed. I did request to see her mother's portrait once more, and by the time we left Eleanor's rooms and made our way into the great gallery, several minutes had passed. We passed through the folding doors and Eleanor's hand was upon the lock while I began to close the folding doors behind us.

"Eleanor!" The General stood opposite the gallery, her name spoken almost at a yell. I instinctively looked to conceal myself, but it was impossible. Eleanor went out with an apologetic look, and darted by hastily to join her father, after which they both disappeared.

I cowered for at least an hour in my room after that, certain that a summons was to arrive any moment which would take me from the Abbey. None arrived, however, and after seeing a carriage drive up to the Abbey, I felt emboldened to descend under the protection of visitors. I

The breakfast room was full of company, and I was introduced to them by the General as "Eleanor's friend." This gave me heart that, though I may have been seen, I was not out of his good graces. But I knew that any future attempt to the forbidden door must be done alone. I could not put her in danger of a second detection, and force her into an apartment which must cause her some anguish at the memory of her mother.

I soon found the perfect moment later that afternoon. I stole into the gallery whilst the clocks struck four. Within moments I was behind the folding doors, and the lock on the main door yielded quietly. I had gained entry so easily, but I could scare breathe in fear that someone might hear my breath.

The room was not at all what I imagined. I knew from the history of the Abbey described by the General that his father had undertaken several modern improvements to the building. One side of the quadrangle had been entirely rebuilt, and it appeared that Mrs. Tilney's room was part of those improvements. Had her window been pointed out to me from the outdoors I would have already known as much, but my orientation was not good enough to have discerned it on my own. There was certainly no secret passageway behind these walls, no loose brick behind which to hide an old journal.

I was assaulted by doubt and the bitter emotion of shame. Could I have been so mistaken? I saw nothing but what must be an elegant lady's room. The lack of dust made it clear that though the General did not desire to enter it, he had not forbidden his staff from doing so. I suddenly had no desire to explore. My surmises now struck me as hollow and every bit as foolish as my enchantment with the cabinet my first evening here.

Whatever had been the General's crimes, I could no longer support the idea that he held his wife prisoner. That did not mean I liked him at all, but I could at least clear him of the monstrous accusations that had held me ensnared these two days.

A sound rang out form below. Now that I knew servants must enter these rooms with regularity, I feared my discovery by one of them. I waited a moment, and when no further sound followed, I retreated quietly from the room, and closed the door softly.

At that instant a door underneath the great gallery was hastily opened, and someone advanced with swift steps to ascend the stairs, the top of which I had to pass before I could gain the gallery.

I had no power to move. With a feeling of terror, I fixed my eyes on the staircase, unable to look away. In a few moments, none but Henry came to my view. "Mr. Tilney!" I exclaimed in relief and surprise. "I had not realized you intended to return this evening. How came you up that staircase?"

So far as I knew, Henry was not due back until tomorrow. I had chosen the time of my visit as early as possible because I wished to have completed it with Henry still away.

His astonishment echoed my own. "How came I up that staircase? Because it is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber. Why should I not come up it?"

I recollected myself, blushed deeply, but could say no more. He remained expectant for an answer, but there was none I could provide with any degree of confidence. I had been prepared for a servant—but there was nothing I could say to Henry that would not be put under the magnifying lense, found wanting, and discarded as false.

I moved on towards the gallery, but he approached the folding doors that I had left askew, drawing my eyes to his actions with a magnetism I could not resist. "And may I not, in my turn," he said, pushing back the folding doors, "ask how you came here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from the breakfast parlor to your apartment as that staircase can be from the stables to mine."

I attempted to stall. "Ah, but I now know that your apartment and my own are in the same hall."

He said nothing.

I sighed, acknowledging defeat. "I have been to see your mother's room."

"My mother's room! I s there anything extraordinary to be seen there?"

"No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till tomorrow."

"I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I went away, but three hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing to detain me. You look pale. I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs. Perhaps you did not know—you were not aware of their leading from the offices in common use?"

"No, I was not. You have had a very fine day for your ride."

"Very, and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms in the house by yourself?"

"Oh! No, she showed me over the greatest part on Saturday—and we were coming here to these rooms—but only"—dropping my voice—"your father was with us."

"And that prevented you," said Henry, earnestly regarding me. "Have you looked into all the rooms in that passage?"

"No, I only wanted to see—"

Too late I sensed the trap drawing around me. "Is not it very late? I must go and dress."

"It is only a quarter past four," he said, showing his watch—"and you are not now in Bath. No theater, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at Northanger must be enough."

I could not contradict so reasonable a statement, and I suffered myself to be detained, though I dreaded further questions. We walked slowly up the gallery.

"Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?" he said.

"No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised me so faithfully to write directly."

"Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! That puzzles me. I have heard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise—the fidelity of promising! It is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can deceive and pain you. My mother's room is very commodious, is it not? Large and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed! It always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house, and I rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She sent you to look at it, I suppose?"

"No."

"It has been your own doing entirely?" He observed me closely, though I did not attend. "As there is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must have proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother's character, as described by Eleanor, which does honor to her memory. The world, I believe, never saw a better woman. But it is not often that virtue can boast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a person never known do not often create that kind of fervent, venerating tenderness which would prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her a great deal?"

"Yes, a great deal. That is—no, not much, but what she did say was very interesting. Her dying so suddenly" —I continued with hesitation— "and you—none of you being at home—and your father, I thought—perhaps had not been very fond of her."

"And from these circumstances," he said, his eye fixed on mine, "you infer perhaps the probability of some negligence—some"—I shook my head—"or it may be—of something still less pardonable." I raised my eyes towards him fully, fearful of what he would say next. "My mother's illness," he continued, "the seizure which ended in her death, was sudden. The malady itself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious fever—its cause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short, as soon as she could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectable man, and one in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were called in the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I—as we were both at home—saw her repeatedly. And from our own observation can bear witness to her having received every possible attention which could spring from the affection of those about her, or which her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a distance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin."

"But your father," I said, unable to keep silent, "was he afflicted?"

"For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to—we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition—and I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere, and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death."

"I am very glad of it," I said, then, impulsively I continued, "it would have been very shocking!"

The look on Henry's face at my slip was alarming. "If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to—Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighborhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?"

We had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame threatening, I excused myself and ran off to my own room.


	35. 18 March 1798

The tears were hot, and many. I stayed close to the door, listening for the closure of his own, which was not twenty feet further down the gallery. I readied myself for dinner, taking only five of the thirty minutes Henry had believed necessary for my toilet.

When I was certain he was gone, I peeked my head out and hurried back the way we had come. If it was indeed the fastest way to the stable yard, I wanted to see Medusa. The guests this morning had given me no opportunity, and I needed her comforting presence.

I felt completely awakened. A chastisement from Henry felt more withering than any I could have possibly imagined. His address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened my eyes to the extravagance of my late fancies than all the proof of their wrongness had done. I had sunk so low, John Thorpe did not seem so terrible in comparison. My folly, which now seemed even criminal, was exposed—nay, more than exposed, as I had not explained the limits to my belief. For all I knew, Henry believed I thought his father a murderer. But I could utter not one word to defend myself, for what kind of defense would I have? 'Oh, but I only thought your mother imprisoned for the last nine years.' Certainly, that would have gone over well.

No. Perhaps it was better to be misunderstood. A murder is a but a single moment. Imprisonment is like a little death every day. In some ways, my interpretation was far worse. The liberty which my imagination had dared to take with the character of his father—could he ever forgive it? The absurdity of my curiosity and fears—I felt I had been the one imprisoned. Imprisoned by my own lack of understanding, my disdain for others feelings, my quick judgments.

I had been growing attached to him. The truth had been there, but I had not been willing to put aside my pride and accept him, honestly. Henry was as dear to me as Eleanor. There had been moments—ah, but I know it was preposterous to think it, but, I did believe he cared for me sometimes. In my idiocy, I had potentially lost a close friend. And I could not bear it.

There was little time to see Medusa. I would not be late for dinner for anything. But as I stroked her neck, I heard a familiar voice. It was not speaking to me, but to one of the stable lads. I could not place the voice at first, and then it came close enough for me to make out some of the conversation.

"…there should be ample time for training the other thoroughbreds tomorrow, but I want to make sure Tony is exercised first as there is one mare I have examined who is in heat…"

The voices drifted away. It was Sir Harry Vane-Tempest! I could not believe Henry had taken my advice and sought him out, and of all the coincidences that we should both be invited to Northanger.

My spirits lifted, and though it did not remove the mark of shame, the knowledge that Henry had valued my advice was a buoy to my fragile confidence. The dinner ahead would be dreadfully awkward, and until this moment, I had been concerned that I would not have the strength to hold my emotions in check.

I also felt elated that I might have many opportunities to see Sir Harry. Did he know I was here? Of course he did—he would know Medusa for certain. I cursed the folly that had prevented my seeing Medusa for the last two days. Had I not been so absorbed with blackening the General's character, I might have seen him sooner.

Full of determination, I left the stable. Sir Harry was nowhere in sight. I made my way down toward the dining room. Henry was there soon after. Neither of us mentioned the incident, and he behaved toward me all that could be expected of a gentleman. I was grateful for his politeness, but could not forget the deep offense I had given him not an hour before. His face did show some strain, and I knew that it must be difficult for him to be in my company when he must have been beyond fury.

The General was the last to arrive. I did not know it was unusual but for the looks Eleanor and Henry continually sent to each other, and when he finally did come, he was not alone.

"I wish to make known to you all," the General began, "Sir Harry Vane-Tempest." Introductions were made to us all. Sir Harry gave Eleanor and I particular smiles. "The ladies may not be aware of his arrival late last evening."

"No, indeed," said Eleanor. "You are very welcome. I do hope you will enjoy your stay."

He bowed. "I thank you, Miss Tilney. Had I been aware there would be such a lovely hostess, I would have allowed for a more lengthy visit."

Henry drew closer to Eleanor, his stance protective. "Sir Harry. How unexpected it is to see you here. Why, when we last spoke, I do believe you said you might never venture into Gloucestershire again."

Sir Harry laughed. "I cannot recall saying such a thing. And even if I did, how could I turn down an invitation from General Tilney himself? Surely not. But I did believe you resided elsewhere, old chap."

The General took Eleanors arm, leading her into the dining room, and Sir Harry came to take my arm. "A pleasure to see you again, Miss Morland. I had no idea you were so intimately connected with the Tilney's."

Henry followed behind, and I was conscious of his possibly overhearing. "Yes, Eleanor has become a close friend."

"The General mentioned you in his letter to me, I must admit your presence was a considerable draw toward accepting his offer for Tony's services. As you may recall, I was considering studding Tony but had decided against it."

"Yes, I remember you mentioned it at dinner one night in Pulteney street."

"The General and Mr. Allen apparently played a game of cards recently where my name was mentioned. I was invited for a visit here where I might be able to make up my mind about the situation. I thought it would be best to come for a week and see how he likes it here. The breeding season does not begin for a fortnight yet I don't want to take Tony out of racing entirely, nor give my neighbors any ideas."

"So it was Mr. Allen himself that recommended you to General Tilney?"

"Yes, and I have written to him with thanks."

We were soon seated. The implications of this news meant that Henry had not told his father of my recommendation after all. Why would he repress information that his father clearly wanted? Unless he did not trust the information, as it had come from me. I felt the heat of humiliation renew, and I fixed my attention on my plate.

"Miss Morland," Sir Harry caught my attention once more, our conversation quiet but as no one else was speaking, quite audible to all. "I would ask a favor, if you will. Come to the stables tomorrow to visit Tony. He would love to see you again, I know it."

"Certainly I will come. If you do decide to lend Tony, would that mean he stays for several months?"

"Possibly. He does have a racing schedule I plan to adhere to as well, so there are complications to the situation. At the very least, I am well able to put General Tilney into contact with owners of other horses with superior lineage."

"Oh, yes you must know a great many." I forced a smile, trying my hardest to be congenial, but the day had been too traumatic for me to be very convincing.

Sir Harry's charisma did not take long to work on most of us. Before long, the General and Eleanor were both laughing, and Sir Harry had drawn out several genuine smiles from me. Henry was the only one who did not appear to be enjoying himself.

At the end of the meal, rather than join his father for brandy as he was wont to do, he excused himself for the evening, claiming exhaustion.

As soon as we were alone, Eleanor said, "I cannot imagine what is the matter with Henry. He seemed perfectly well before dinner. Did you think the veal tasted strangely? I wonder if we shall all be excusing ourselves before long."

"Not indeed, I enjoyed that dish very much. I do not think it was the food." I sighed, and attempted to reassure her. "I'm sure he was just tired, as he said. He must have had a great many things to do upon his return to Woodston, and then rode home very quickly so he would not be late for dinner."

She relaxed, and picked up her embroidery once again. "I am so grateful you have come to stay, Catherine. Without you, I would be fretting the night long."

I stood, and went to the window of the sitting room. Though I could not tell her, I knew the true reason for Henry's abrupt departure. It was because of me. He had been forced to sit at the same table with the person that had maligned his family name in an unforgivable manner. His character held great strengths of will, and a deeply held pride that was dear to him.

The position in which I had placed myself was untenable. I could not explain the situation to anyone, nor, I was certain, would Henry. I had been at Northanger for barely three days of the month to which I had been invited. Henry, at least, had Woodston to excape to. I hoped, for both our sakes, that he would spend as much time there in the coming weeks as possible.

The conversation from the afternoon replayed in my mind. It was the culmination of weeks of subconscious preparation, I could see that now, though it was preparation for a tremendous failing. I had been drawn in too far to the realm of Mrs. Radcliffe's works and the like. Isabella was no fool, I did not doubt she would have laughed at notions I'd held and the causeless terror I had worked myself into, but the impression the books had made on my mind was deep.

I wished I had a copy of Udolpho, so I could burn it.

A seventeen year old girl with no life experience should not immerse herself in fantasy without stronger grounds in reality. If only I'd had a wider reading base, perhaps a critique of the book or, even more simply, if I'd read the history books my father urged I might have not been so naive, so taken in. So weak.

I missed Isabella fiercely. She would laugh at me, certainly, but then call me her dearest creature and say something inane to distract me. A letter would take only a day or two at most to reach her from Bath. Perhaps I might write to her tonight, but not finish it until after her letter reached me tomorrow.

I was certain a letter would arrive tomorrow.


	36. 19 March 1798

Early the next morning, I dressed in my habit and walked quickly to the stable. Exercise would help clear my mind, and a late breakfast would decrease my chances of being alone with Henry, judging from the time he breakfasted yesterday.

I was so focused on my own errand that I did not realize until after I had entered the stable yard that another horse had just been fetched, Henry's own bay stallion—though he was nowhere in sight. I marched resolutely into the stable, and sought out Medusa. As a stable boy helped saddle her for my ride, I saw movement through the window. Sir Harry and Henry were standing opposite one another some twenty feet away. Henry's back was to me and I couldn't see his face, but Sir Harry's arms were folded, and looked almost angry. If we'd been at home, and looking at two of my brothers, I'd have been certain they were about to throw a punch. A servant stepped into view, whispered something to Henry, who promptly turned and walked away, toward toward his horse it appeared.

The window was dirty, but I moved quickly out of sight. It would be just my luck to get caught spying.

I discovered both stable boy and Medusa had begun to gone out, and I hurried to follow them. Henry should have had ample time to leave. When I emerged into the yard, though at some distance near a copse of trees, he was still in sight, astride his horse.

The stable yard had three main points of entry on horseback: a well worn path that wound by the carriage house toward the nearby traveling road; an open field that lead into the deeper back country of the estate; and a shadowed hunting path that lead into the copse where Henry seemed poised to go. The path to the road was out of the question—Sir Harry was likely still there. And thus I turned Medusa to the field beyond, and set off.

We galloped across many miles of country. Secure in my isolation, I relaxed and fell into a deep meditative focus. And for those miles, I was just a girl with her horse. No anxiety, no concerns, no people to please or displease. I could just be myself. For the first time in weeks, I felt composed and self-assured.

I visited Ham (or Tony, as Sir Harry continued to suggest), and I walked him around the yard for a little while. Sir Harry and I soon began talking, and walked toward the thicket of trees.

After we'd covered several other topics, I said, "If you don't mind me asking, how do you know Mr. Tilney?"

"Henry and I met at Cambridge in our salad days. We were good friends."

I expected something more, but Sir Harry only turned and gave me one of his grins.

"Time and distance separated you, I suppose?"

A shadow passed over his face. "Something like that. We've grown apart in many ways."

"I see. Perhaps you might solve another mystery for me. Was it your idea to fetch my horse to Bath, or Mr. Allen's?"

He laughed, the shadow gone. "You haven't puzzled that one out yet, I see."

"I was going to ask Mr. Allen, but there was never a good moment—and then I forgot all about it!"

"As much as I'd like to take credit, the idea was all Mr. Allen's. He knew I was passing through the area and asked if I would take a letter to James. It was nothing."

"No. It was something. And I thank you."

His eye twinkled, and he offered me his arm as we stepped into the shady wood. "My pleasure, Miss Morland. But where is your brother James?"

I turned to glare at him, the memory of the dreadful post script rushing to my mind. "What was that little foreboding tidbit at the end of your note to me about?"—switching to low ominous tone— "I have the feeling trouble will find him…he will need your support." I let out a sigh. "What a thing to write. What trouble did you mean?"

His response was not immediate, but his face passed through several iterations of frowning before finally remarking, "Well, you see, there was that man Thorpe with him—"

"Is that all? Mr. Thorpe was far more trouble to me than to James. His plaguings were never ending. Mr. Tilney disliked him also, and gave him a royal set down at a ball once. Most of what I've witnessed with James has been happy. Did you know he is engaged to Mr. Thorpe's sister, Isabella?"

He stopped, and my arm slipped from his. "Is that so? I did not not hear of it. And this has brought him...happiness?"

"Of course. Can there be any doubt?" I was rather incredulous to his insinuation.

His gaze grew distant, as thought deep in thought. "No, I…that is," he sighed, refocusing on me, then smiled. "No doubt at all. I was only concerned that Isabella might be like her brother. I'm afraid his impression on me was quite low, quite low. The words in the letter I sent were solely connected to that impression. I have nothing ill to say of Isabella, and I wish James every happiness."

"I will tell him so when I next write. I'm expecting a letter today from Isabella herself, and will send your congratulations to him in my reply."

"I thank you."

The wind picked up, and my stomach growled something fierce.

"Pardon me," I said with embarrassment, the sound too loud to go unnoticed. "I just recalled I never ate any breakfast."

"That is no way to take care of yourself! I insist we go straight to the kitchens. No breakfast indeed. Tsk tsk, my dear."

And he whisked me away without allowing any argument. We did take a light repose courtesy of the cook, but I felt increasingly pressed to find Eleanor and let her know my whereabouts. I hadn't intended to disappear for the entire morning, and now I'd gone and done just that. Sir Harry let me go, and I raced up to my room first to change, and then sought out Eleanor in her favored sitting area.

She wasn't there. I soon found a servant to inquire her location, and was told that she and Henry were both in the greenhouse. After gaining directions and getting lost once along the way, I soon found them both.

"There you are Eleanor! And good morning to you as well, Mr. Tilney." I made a slight curtsey, and then immediately regretted it.

"Where have you been, dearest Catherine?" Eleanor said in a rush, "I thought you must have perished in the wood and I was thinking to send Henry out to look for you."

"She had not perished in the wood," Henry said. "I told you myself she was riding this morning."

"But that was hours ago, surely!" She looked at me, her face pale and eyes bright.

"I am so sorry if I caused you any worry. I needed a long ride to clear my head—"

"Oh—yes!"

"—and when I returned, I visited some with Sir Harry and his horse. And then I stopped in the kitchen and my room and then started looking in various rooms before I thought to ask a servant where you were and…well. I have been a very irresponsible guest." I smiled weakly. "Forgive me?"

"Of course! And you are always welcome to do as you please."

"And perhaps tomorrow," Mr. Tilney said softly, "we might resume our morning rides together. I know Frederick is not here, but I will do my best to complain bitterly of something new each day so we won't miss him too much."

We shared a laugh at that, though his request caught me off guard. "He was not that bad. It was not nearly so often. Though he did seem to be rather protective of his uniform. If I had only a single dress to wear, I would be just as protective of it, I daresay."

"But he must have more than one uniform," said Eleanor, "does he not?"

"Naturally," said Henry. "Captains are allowed to purchase as many as they like, but Lieutenants and any lower ranking officers may only have one each. You may recall Frederick's smell improved dramatically after his latest promotion."

I turned to Eleanor. "Your brother is telling a fib, is he not? I may not ask him directly as he cannot be trusted."

"I think I may venture a resounding affirmative. I have fallen for his tricks enough times to know."

A thought occurred to me. "Tell me, when does the mail usually come?"

Henry answered me, his face softening with concern. "It has come already, nothing for you I'm sorry to say."

"I see. Thank you." I turned to look through the foggy glass, then thought better of staying in close quarters with them. "Please excuse me, I will retire to my room until lunch."

They both nodded, and before either could say anything, I ducked out of the greenhouse, dodging several low hanging branches that blocked my way."

In my room, I took out my journal, and wrote of the events of the past few days. The occupation took my mind off the worry that threatened.

After luncheon, Eleanor took me on several tenant visits, which was a marvelous restorative for my nerves, and I was feeling more centered by days end. Dinner had been a quiet affair, Henry more talkative than that evening before. He continued to show me the same attention and politeness as he had that morning, and I grew to wonder whether his silence the previous evening was not actually due to fatigue rather than anything personal. His generosity to me today was not something I could brush off, he was making a sincere effort to help me feel at ease. I supposed that was the adult thing to do, he could not actually avoid speaking to me for a whole month without causing our quarrel to become a point of interest.

After that, my days fell into a pattern. Henry was as good as his word, seeking me out each morning so that we might walk to the stable together. Those brief minutes were filled with pleasantries, comments on the weather, and nothing much else. After riding I would change and head straight to the breakfast room, inquiring directly as to the letters. Always, nothing. I continued to visit with Sir Harry and Ham most mornings, and then afternoons were primarily spent with Eleanor. One strange thing I noticed, Sir Harry seemed to take breakfast in his rooms each day, for I never saw him in the breakfast room even once.

Northanger grew more and more beautiful to me. I felt my relationship with Henry still on eggshells, and I managed to avoid the General most of the time, though I no longer feared him. I had given Sir Harry permission to call me Catherine in private, and his fondness for me grew daily, always calling me his dear. I felt so very comfortable in his presence, but the few mornings I went to see him when he was unavailable, I was surprised by my languid reaction. I had put off any wish or expectation concerning him, for several reasons. Though a proposal from him would not be unwelcome, I did not wish to put foolish ideas into my head, and instead focused on enjoying his friendship while he was there to give it.

Foolish ideas had been the bane of my existence, and as I had decided to be sensible, I was proud that I had not entertained any since the fateful incident. I was even surprising myself with a new interest in history and spending several hours a day reading from history books Eleanor had suggested. We had many interesting discussions about what I'd read that informed me I had misjudged the subject to a severe degree in the past.

My anxiety for Isabella grew each day. Why did she not write? I held back my own letter, which was silly, but it gave me some measure of control that I needed. I began to wonder if anything was amiss, but, as I was kept relatively busy, I was saved from fretting too much on that point.


	37. 28 March 1798

I could not hold back long. I sent my letter the following day, and then another on the next.

And then the morning came, nearly two weeks following me departure from Bath, I went down to the breakfast room to find Henry holding out a letter for me.

I gasped. "Thank you. Finally, a letter from Isabella—oh—tis only from James", as I recognized the script, and tore it open on the spot.

"Dear Catherine,

"Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it my duty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and me. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either again. I shall not enter into particulars—they would only pain you more. You will soon hear enough from another quarter to know where lies the blame; and I hope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of too easily thinking his affection returned. Thank God! I am undeceived in time! But it is a heavy blow! After my father's consent had been so kindly given—but no more of this. She has made me miserable forever! Let me soon hear from you, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; your love I do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before Captain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him; his honest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my father. Her duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned with her, she declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it; but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved, I was that man. I cannot understand even now what she would be at, for there could be no need of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney. We parted at last by mutual consent—happy for me had we never met! I can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you give your heart.

"Believe me," &amp;c.

I had not read three lines before I felt despair take over. I read through to the end of the the letter, more aghast with every line. I looked up, and my eyes were met by two pairs of brown, each solicitous. There was no time to speak as the General joined us and began his own breakfast. I dutifully went and got some eggs and cocoa, but the thought of eating turned my stomach. As soon as I dared leave the table, I hurried away to my room. It was full of housemaids however—I was obliged to leave. I tried the drawing-room, but Henry and Eleanor had also retreated there, and were deep in some discussion.

I drew back. "I beg your pardon," and turned to go but for Eleanor's voice, more firm than I had yet heard, telling me I must stay and they would withdraw, until I had need of her. She wished to be of use, but I thanked her and let them go.

The settee called, and I cast myself into it, tears falling down my cheeks. I sat there in silence, until I felt equal to encountering my friends. They would ask questions—I could not deny them some answer, but I wished I might only distantly hint at the truth, so distressing was it to say.

I found them in the breakfast room, alone. I sat, and after a short silence, Eleanor said, "No bad news from Fullerton, I hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland—your brothers and sisters—I hope they are none of them ill?"

"No, I thank you," I sighed, "they are all very well. My letter was from my brother at Oxford."

Nothing further was said for a few minutes, as they expected me to say what I could not. Tears came again to my eyes, and I said finally, "I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter again!"

"I am sorry," said Henry, closing the book he had just opened, "if I had suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should have given it with very different feelings."

"It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! Poor James is so unhappy! You will soon know why."

"To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister," replied Henry warmly, "must be a comfort to him under any distress."

I looked into his eyes, surprised at the words—they sounded so sincere.

"I have one favour to beg," I said, in an agitated manner, "that, if your brother should be coming here, you will give me notice of it, that I may go away."

"Our brother! Frederick?" said Eleanor.

"Yes, I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but something has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in the same house with Captain Tilney."

Eleanor's work was suspended while she gazed with increasing astonishment, but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in which Miss Thorpe's name was included, passed his lips.

"How quick you are!" I cried, "you have guessed it, I declare! And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its ending so. Isabella—no wonder now I have not heard from her—Isabella has deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! Could you have believed there had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is bad in the world?"

"I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed," Henry said. "I hope he has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland's disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you must be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland—sorry that anyone you love should be unhappy, but my surprise would be greater at Frederick's marrying her than at any other part of the story."

"It is very true. You shall read James's letter yourself. Stay—There is one part—" I recollected with a blush the last line.

"Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern my brother?"

"No, read it yourself," I said, thinking more clearly now. "I do not know what I was thinking of" —I blushed now at blushing before— "James only means to give me good advice."

He gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with close attention, returned it saying, "Well, if it is to be so, I can only say that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has chosen a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do not envy his situation, either as a lover or a son."

Eleanor, at my invitation, now read the letter likewise, and, having expressed also her concern and surprise, began to inquire into Isabella's connections and fortune.

"Her mother is a very good sort of woman," was my answer.

"What was her father?"

"A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney."

"Are they a wealthy family?"

"No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all. But that will not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal! He told me the other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to promote the happiness of his children." The brother and sister looked at each other. "But," said Eleanor, after a short pause, "would it be to promote his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must be an unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And how strange an infatuation on Frederick's side! A girl who, before his eyes, is violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another man! Is not it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so proudly! Who found no woman good enough to be loved!"

"That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption against him," he said. "When I think of his past declarations, I give him up. Moreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe's prudence to suppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other was secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased man—defunct in understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor, and such a sister-in-law as you must delight in! Open, candid, artless, guileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions, and knowing no disguise."

"Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in," said Eleanor with a smile.

"But perhaps," I said, "though she has behaved so ill by our family, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the man she likes, she may be constant."

"Indeed I am afraid she will," replied Henry, "I am afraid she will be very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is Frederick's only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the arrivals."

"But Isabella did come in the way of a baronet. She met Sir Harry, and knew his station. It was only once, but still—I can say at least that for her defense."

Henry grimaced. "I can have no opinion there."

"You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are some things that do point that way. I cannot forget that, when she first knew what my father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed that it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone's character in my life before. Though I was far less deceived in Mr. Thorpe, I always gave Isabella chance after chance, convincing myself she was true. My own disappointment and loss in her is very great. But, as for poor James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it."

"Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present, but we must not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours," he said. "You feel, I suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feel a void in your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is becoming irksome; and as for the amusements in which you were wont to share at Bath, the very idea of them without her is abhorrent. You would not, for instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feel that you have no longer any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve, on whose regard you can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you could rely on. You feel all this?"

"No, I soon learned to keep her at arms length," I said, "many things she said and did were irking in themselves. To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still love her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her again, I do not feel so very much afflicted as one would have thought. I think I built her up in my mind as a future sister-in-law, but now that she is not, I can remove that pedestal."

My spirits were so very much relieved by this conversation that I did not regret divulging the contents of the letter, though it was a selfish thing to do. I suppose it is not possible to be always selfless, but I did feel sorry for bringing them such news of Captain Tilney.

I did wonder at Henry's reaction when I mentioned Sir Harry. I had never seen them interact other than what was required socially, other than what I witnessed through the barn window.

As I had missed my morning appointment (as it had now become expected on both sides) with Sir Harry, I went to seek him out in the afternoon but was immediately thwarted. The stable hands had no notion of where he was, and I realized I had never noticed where his rooms were. I certainly could not ask a servant—such a question would be far too embarrassing to utter aloud. I was walking beside the lower gallery windows—those opposite the hall of my own room—when I saw the two men together across the way. I walked quickly around the quadrangle, about to round the corner when snippets of conversation bent my ear, and I halted abruptly before I was seen.

Henry's voice was heard first, which caused me to stop before I interrupted what sounded like a heated discussion. "…presence grows more insulting by the day. I cannot fathom why…depart immediately, I have been most patient."

Sir Harry's voice was not as loud, but still audible. "…none of your business, old friend. You lost that right years ago. This house does not belong to you."

"No, it my father's house, which carries the same insult."

"I told you I had no notion you resided here."

"That should should have made no difference. Your actions affected others in my family, as you well know."

"You have already …on that point. Out of respect to your sister…" Sir Harry's voice became too low to hear.

"I would stop at nothing to prevent such a connection."

Sir Harry's response was too low to hear, except for I was almost certain of the mention of my given name.

Henry's voice became low and chilling, but whatever he said was lost to me.

My back to the wall, I waited for a sound, a hint, of anything more, and then the soft click of a door. I padded back down the way I had come, but it was not until I had found Eleanor in the sitting room that I could calm my wild pulse.

Eleanor looked up and smiled, her work always at hand. I hurriedly found a patchwork I'd left lying around another day, and snatched it up. After a few minutes of this, I found I could relax enough to think clearly on what I had heard.

Though much of the conversation had been inaudible, it was clear that Henry and Sir Harry were not peacefully coexisting as I had previously thought. I must have read the situation correctly then, when I saw them through the window over a week ago. But if they were on such very bad terms, why would Henry's family not be aware of it? I could not imagine the General asking Sir Harry under such circumstances unless he was unaware. Further, this would explain why Henry did not use my own recommendation of Sir Harry, as he did not wish him to come here.

Why Eleanor and I were mentioned in the conversation I could not say.

I changed colors, rethreading my needle with red.

What I did know, was that I wished I had not witnessed their argument—indeed, I should have turned away from the first moment. Still, I was determined to be sensible now. A sensible girl would not dwell on it.

There. I have put it out of my mind.


	38. 30 March - 3 April 1798

Two days passed. Captain Tilney became a regular topic when Eleanor, her brother, and I were together—which was becoming more and more often as Henry increasingly spent his afternoons in our company. Henry and I had not had a real conversation since the incident outside his mother's room, and though our interactions were comfortable, I still did not feel as though the ground between us had been fully mended. He was more reserved, holding back when he would have barreled me with some argument. Eleanor still got the full effect, which made it all the more noticeable when he made attempts to modify his usual mode of address when directing an answer to me.

In these conversations on Captain Tilney, I was surprised that both Eleanor and Henry felt that Isabella's lack of fortune was a significant barrier to the engagement. Henry insisted Frederick would not dare ask his father for permission face to face, and so there was no danger in an encounter that would force me to leave. In the two days since James's letter had arrived, there were no tidings of Captain Tilney.

The General, meanwhile, though offended every morning by his remissness in writing, was free from any real anxiety about him. The General had not eased on his concern over my pleasure at Northanger. He often expressed uneasiness that I might grow tired of the same employments day to day, the same society we encountered (which was little). He often spoke of the Lady Frasers who were out of the country, and would talk of having a large party to dinner, but then in the next breath say what a dead time of the year it was and how it could not be. And at the end of this familiar speech, newly today he was telling Henry that when he next went to Woodston, we would take him by surprise there some day or other, and dine with him.

Henry seemed delighted with the prospect, and as I had long wished to see Woodston after hearing so much about it, seconded the notion as superb. As he was required to go to Woodston on monday two days hence for a parish meeting, it was fixed that we should all come on Wednesday.

Later, when Eleanor and I were in the sitting room, he came and said, "I am come, ladies, in a very moralizing strain, to observe that our pleasures in this world are always to be paid for, and that we often purchase them at a great disadvantage, giving ready-monied actual happiness for a draft on the future, that may not be honored. Witness myself, at this present hour. Because I am to hope for the satisfaction of seeing you at Woodston on Wednesday, which bad weather, or twenty other causes, may prevent, I must go away directly, two days before I intended it."

"Go away?" I asked, surprised. "Why must you go so early?"

"Why? How can you ask the question? Because no time is to be lost in frightening my old housekeeper out of her wits, because I must og and prepare a dinner for you, to be sure."

"Oh! Not seriously?"

"Aye, and sadly too, for I had much rather stay."

"But how can you think of such a thing, after what the General said? When he so particularly desired you not to give yourself any trouble, because anything would do."

Henry only smiled.

I tried again. "I am sure it is quite unnecessary upon your sister's account and mine. You must know it to be so. And the General made such a point of your providing nothing extraordinary. Besides, even if he had not said half so much as he did, he has always such an excellent dinner at home, that sitting down to a middling one for one day could not signify."

"I wish I could reason like you, for his sake and my own. Good-bye, Miss Tilney." He turned to his sister, saying, "As tomorrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I shall attend my own parish meeting, and see you on Wednesday."

And he went. His judgment on the matter soon obliged me to give him credit for being right, however disagreeable that was. I had discovered myself many times that the General was very particular in his eating, but why should he say one thing so positively and mean another all the while! It was most unaccountable. How were people, at that rate, to be understood?

The four days wait went very slowly for me. I grew tired of the woods and shrubberies, and my morning rides alone were not the same. I found the abbey itself to feel so much like my own house now, that it was not thrilling in the ways it had been initially. Though I continued on my normal schedule, I could do nothing but wish for Wednesday to come.

When the day finally arrived, it was not wet as I had gloomily predicted, but fair and temperate. Just as I expected, Sir Harry was not one of the party, though what excuse he had given to the General I knew not.

We arrived after a two hour carriage ride.

I honestly did not have any expectation of the place. With each fresh sight as we approached, there was much to admire in the neat houses, shops, and greenery we passed. At the far end of the village, set up rather apart from the rest, stood the parsonage. It looked rather new, made from stone. We entered through a set of green gates, the path curving in a semicircular path toward the house. As we pulled up the door, Henry, a large Newfoundland puppy, and two or three terriers, were ready to receive us.

I was first out of the carriage. Henry came forward and handed me down, his grip firm and reassuring. The sun's glow made the shrubs and flowers positively burst with color, the air fragrant with the smell of spring.

And I felt happy. So very happy.

We entered the house, and the General, always seeking my opinion—though I could not understand why he should, surely I had demonstrated my lack of appreciation for many of the finer things—he asked what I though of the room.

Hesitantly, I said the only thought that had occurred to me. "I think it the most comfortable room in the world."

"Well, Henry," the General said with a light in his eyes, "the most comfortable in the world? Far be it from me to say otherwise."

Henry lifted one eyebrow, and we continued to be shown about the place, going through to the grounds in the back, and several other rooms in the house after that. There was one room in particular, which looked like it might have been the drawing-room, though it was unfurnished.

The room in was prettily shaped, with windows reaching to the ground and a view over green meadows. "Oh!" I said, overcoming my self-consciousness, "Why do you not fit up this room, Mr. Tilney? What a pity not to have it fitted up. It is the prettiest room I ever saw."

"I trust," said the General, with a satisfied smile, "that it will very speedily be furnished. It waits only for a lady's taste."

The significance of this remark was lost to me, as I was only half listening. "Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else." I went closer to the window. "Oh! What a sweet little cottage there is among the trees—apple trees, too! It is the prettiest cottage!"

"You like it—you approve it as an object—it is enough. Henry, remember that Robinson is spoken to about it. The cottage remains."

The General's words recalled my consciousness once again, and I blushed deeply, the heat creeping up my neck. I looked to the floor, and said nothing more. Though it was a compliment, it felt wrong for him to have said it—indeed, I should never have commented on the property so specifically. I dared not look at Henry either, but kept close to Eleanor's side as the General pointedly applied to me for my choice of the color of wallpaper and hangings. Nothing like an opinion on the subject could be drawn from me, however, and we soon quit the room for the ornamental gardens.

"Henry has done a great deal to it in the past year," Eleanor said to me as we walked. I had sufficiently recovered by then to think it prettier than any pleasure-ground I had been in before—though I did not say so. There were other meadows after that, and through part of the village, then a visit to the stables to see some improvements. There I observed privately to Eleanor that her brother's horses must be very happy here.

He overheard my remark, and I realized he was standing far closer than before. "I'm glad you approve. And how have you two been without me? Desolated and dull, I know you need not answer."

Eleanor smiled and said, "Of course Henry, you are quite right. There was not room for any other emotion."

"Excellent, Excellent," he said, returning the smile.

It was the first time we had been away from the General, who was growing more annoying hourly. His habit of answering for Henry—though I'd noticed it before—it had never bothered me so much as it did today. We were in Henry's home after all, though it was attached to his living. It might technically be owned by the General, but could he not allow Henry to have any sense of independence?

Before the opportunity was lost, I said, "Mr. Tilney, I hope you will not take for granted an opinion uttered with out any thought—if you planned to tear down that cottage in the apple orchard, I wish you would not stay on my account. The General's order made me feel quite uncomfortable."

There was a glimmer of something behind his eyes. "Nay, the cottage is a favorite feature of mine. It is my father who wanted it removed." His mouth bent into a smile, and reached into the front pocket of his waistcoat. "As he values your opinion so highly, he will finally stop pressing me on the subject. But I am sorry for any discomfort he caused."

From his pocket he retrieved a long-chained watch. "It is nearly four. Let us go down to dine."

The abundance of the dinner did not seem to create the smallest astonishment in the General. Though he looked several times at the side-table for cold meat which was not there, he ate heartily. Henry's housekeeper had done well.

After coffee, it was nearly six and the carriage again received us. The ride home was spent in reflection, primarily, as all of us had had a splendid day. Henry had promised to return on the morrow, and all was well.


	39. 4 April 1798

The next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from Isabella:

Bath, April My dearest Catherine, I received your two kind letters with the greatest delight, and have a thousand apologies to make for not answering them sooner. I really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but in this horrid place one can find time for nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to begin a letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but have always been prevented by some silly trifler or other. Pray write to me soon, and direct to my own home. Thank God, we leave this vile place tomorrow. Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it—the dust is beyond anything; and everybody one cares for is gone. I believe if I could see you I should not mind the rest, for you are dearer to me than anybody can conceive. I am quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard from him since he went to Oxford; and am fearful of some misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all right: he is the only man I ever did or could love, and I trust you will convince him of it. The spring fashions are partly down; and the hats the most frightful you can imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but am afraid you never think of me. I will not say all that I could of the family you are with, because I would not be ungenerous, or set you against those you esteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust, and young men never know their minds two days together. I rejoice to say that the young man whom, of all others, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You will know, from this description, I must mean Captain Tilney, who, as you may remember, was amazingly disposed to follow and tease me, before you went away. Afterwards he got worse, and became quite my shadow. Many girls might have been taken in, for never were such attentions; but I knew the fickle sex too well. He went away to his regiment two days ago, and I trust I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the greatest coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable. The last two days he was always by the side of Charlotte Davis: I pitied his taste, but took no notice of him. The last time we met was in Bath Street, and I turned directly into a shop that he might not speak to me; I would not even look at him. He went into the pump-room afterwards; but I would not have followed him for all the world. Such a contrast between him and your brother! Pray send me some news of the latter—I am quite unhappy about him; he seemed so uncomfortable when he went away, with a cold, or something that affected his spirits. I would write to him myself, but have mislaid his direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he took something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his satisfaction; or, if he still harbors any doubt, a line from himself to me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights. I have not been to the rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in last night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: they teased me into it; and I was determined they should not say I shut myself up because Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and they pretended to be quite surprised to see me out. I knew their spite: at one time they could not be civil to me, but now they are all friendship; but I am not such a fool as to be taken in by them. You know I have a pretty good spirit of my own. Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, as I wore it the week before at the concert, but made wretched work of it—it happened to become my odd face, I believe, at least Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but he is the last man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple now: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter—it is your dear brother's favorite color. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me, Who ever am, etc.

Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose on me. I was no longer the naive girl from two months ago, and though I fell for it then, I could not now. The inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck me immediately. I was ashamed of her, and ashamed of ever having loved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her excuses were empty, and her demands impudent. Write to James on her behalf? No! James would never hear Isabella's name mentioned by me again.

The letter's arrival knocked my morning on its side. I took a long breakfast, chatting with Eleanor and sharing the letter's contents with her after the General left us. We had only just repaired to the drawing room when Henry arrived from Woodston, and I could share it with him as well. The letter made clear their brother's safety—no engagement was in place after all.

"So much for Isabella!" I said in high spirits, "and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I do not believe she had ever any regard either for James of for me, and I wish I had never known her."

"It will soon be as if you never had," said Henry.

"There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and then fly off himself?"

"I have very little to say for Frederick's motives, such as I believe them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself. If the effect of his behavior does not justify him with you, we had better not seek after the cause."

"Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?"

"I am persuaded that he never did."

"And only made believe to do so for mischief's sake?"

Henry bowed his assent.

"Well, then, I must say that I do not like that at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?"

"But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose—consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment."

"It is very right that you should stand by your brother."

"And if you would stand by yours, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."

"Warped by principle?" The response, so like Henry, made me smile. "Such flattery, you do turn my head. But I am convinced. I suppose I cannot fault Captain Tilney, whatever his motives. Were it not for him, my brother might have made a very unhappy marriage. Perhaps he still may, but at least not this one."

It was not until dinner that evening that I recalled my missed appointment to see Sir Harry. He walked into the drawing room where we had gathered to wait, and I had to struggle to hide my surprise. How could I have forgotten Sir Harry after only day's absence?

That thought bothered me. As I considered it, another thought struck me. Did he think of me romantically? That had been my dearest wish a month ago, but now I did not know whether that possibility pleased me or not. He was a good friend, certainly, but was that enough?

I laid awake that night. All the interactions I'd had with Sir Harry since he arrived had been one of close friends. He regularly sought my counsel and company so far as he was able. It was true he never looked for me when I did not come to him, but I could only suppose he wished to stay out of Henry's sight. At dinner, practically the only time they saw one another, the General was usually monopolizing his conversation, but he gave me a great many looks and smiles.

The enmity between them was often on my mind. Here were two men that I held in high esteem, and they could barely stand one another. I did not understand why Henry had stayed at Northanger most of the time, going to Woodston only when business demanded it. If John Thorpe ever visited my home, I would certainly leave as soon as possible if I could. Why did Henry stay?

No answer came.


	40. 5 April 1798 PART 1

It happened during our morning ride. Henry came for me at the usual time, but he said next to nothing while we walked down to the stables.

When we were saddled and ready, he said, "I thought we might try another path today."

I nodded in assent, and he turned us immediately toward the traveling road.

It was my first time traversing it on horseback. In a chaise and four, yes. In an open carriage, yes. But in neither circumstance could I take in so much detail.

We soon took a turn onto a lane that may as well have been part of the field, so overgrown had it become. "Surely this road is not taken often," I said, the grass brushing at my boots. "However can you see where you're going?"

"I used to come this way frequently. The grass was shorter then."

A few minutes later he turned into a shaded grove, headed straight for a mossy stump, and dismounted.

The tree canopy let a few rays of light through to the ground, creating a magical effect. "What a lovely spot this is. Why are we stopping?"

He held out his hand to assist in my descent. I took it, sliding down the side of the saddle onto the stump. He eyes met mine. "I have a meeting arranged with Thomas Brearly. I didn't mention it in the house for reasons of secrecy, but I hoped you wouldn't mind."

"Not at all," I said, conscious of his hand still on mine. He let go, as though my awareness had traveled to him in a dynamic pulse. He looked away, and took a couple steps back before scouting around the area.

I held my hands together, my nervousness causing me to tremble slightly. "Are we early?" I said.

"Only a few minutes." He finished his circle round the glade and stopped at a point a few fee distant from where I stood. He began to push aside some loose brush from what was ultimately revealed as a fallen log. He took my hand once more, guiding me to a seat on the log. From there, he secured the horses to a set of branches, and then joined me at the seat.

We were quiet for a time. The peace of the glade settled over me, and I soon grew comfortable in the silence.

"Thomas and I were friends as children. His father owned this land and left it to his son after his death, but his family eventually fell onto hard times and they were forced to leave. He and Eleanor were newly engaged, but after the scandal, my father forbade the connection. If my father ever found out that they still meet in secret, Eleanor would likely be sent away, and Thomas arrested."

I nodded, thinking through his words. "I am honored that you would confide this to me, that you trusted me enough in Bath at that meeting on the bluffs—considering the stakes, I find it surprising you took the chance."

"There was no chance with you, Miss Morland. You may not have understood me, but I have always understood you. We had spoken very little before I knew you to be one of the most honorable, trustworthy people I might ever hope to meet."

The sincerity in his eyes brooked no denial that he meant it. In time I found a reply, though his declaration caused a stunned silence of many breaths. "That is the highest compliment I think I could ever receive."

"Surely not. I can think at at least one better."

A noise, a galloping at a distance, drew our attention to outside the glade. "That must be Thomas." He stood, and began to walk toward the exit.

I grabbed his arm. "Wait," I said, pausing again to listen, "that is not the gait of a single horse. I think there are two of them."

They were getting close—but still not in sight.

And then there were two gun shots, one after the next.

"What the devil?" Henry ran to his horse, yanking the reins from the branch before throwing himself over. "Stay here." And he disappeared into the meadow beyond.

Gripped with indecision, I could not bring myself to move, and yet every instinct told me to go after him.

A third shot broke my paralysis.

"No. No!"

I flew out of the glade at full gallop. The sun blinded me momentarily, and I attempted to get my bearings in the unfamiliar place. Medusa would take me in the right direction I hoped; I was disoriented and had only a vague sense of where to go.

"Henry!"

I pulled back, slowing to a trot, and called again.

So little warning was there, we might have been trampled if not for Medusa's stature. She reared high in the air, as did the other horse, self-preservation on both sides the primary law. The horseman, heavily muscled and unkempt, held a rifle in one hand, the reins in the other. He was deeply tanned and covered in sweat, a large bruise on his left temple, and a bloody cloth tied round his arm.

"What have you done?" I said, filling with anger toward this man.

His brow furrowed, taken aback at my boldness. "I don't like to shoot a lady, but there are always exceptions to the rule."

I flinched at his threat, and had no choice but to let him go. The grass in his wake was getting a thorough trample, and I had the idea to follow his path in reverse. I was no tracker, but even I could spot the crushed grass.

Holding Medusa to a trot, we kept on for what seemed an interminable amount of time.

The meadow opened into a small graveyard with a dozen or so headstones. In the middle of it, I saw them. Henry was kneeling, and looked up at my coming. His face was white, his shirt was wet with blood.

Thomas lay unconscious beside him. Henry had removed his cravat, attempting to stop the bleeding on Thomas's leg wound.

My voice shook as I spoke. "Wh-whose blood?"

"I hardly know," he said, barely audible.

"Tell me you are not hurt," my voice raised.

"I…not hurt."

The muscles in his face were drawn and tense.

"I don't believe you."

Discarding all rules of deportment, I went to his side, touched his face.

Sweat beaded his brow.

"Tell me now or I'll look for myself."

"I…" His shoulders swayed, and he suddenly collapsed against me.

"Henry!" I set him down on the ground. "Henry!"

He lay still as a ghost. I lost no time in opening his waistcoat and shirt. Once pulled away, I could see they had been cut. His abdomen I could barely look at, but the seam of blood was unmistakable.

He'd been cut with a knife.

I didn't stop to think.

After galloping back to Northanger like a madwoman, I ran through its halls, half carrying my skirts, until I found Eleanor in the drawing room.

She looked up at my hasty entrance.

Inside I was a tangle of emotions. I couldn't imagine I appeared on the outside. Eleanor scrambled to her feet, closing the distance between us in three hurried steps.

"What has happened?" she said, concern in her look.

Between labored breaths, I conveyed the rudiments of what had occurred. She grew pale, and reached out to grasp the nearest chair for support.

"We must act quickly," I said," but I don't know what to do. "Is there a surgeon nearby? Should we bring them to the house, or leave them where they are to wait for the surgeon?"

Her eyes cast about wildly, and I witnessed a slew of emotions and thoughts pass her over in that moment. Then she looked up, her mouth set. "You must bring them to the house at once. And a surgeon—he must be fetched immediately. I would go myself, but I am a terrible rider as you know—and you won't know where to go. I must tell father—we cannot possibly conceal Thomas's presence."

"I'll go to the stable—Sir Harry can help us and surely there will be a cart thereabouts that can be hitched."

She nodded and took my hand. "Thank you Catherine, I am indebted."

In the stable minutes later, I found Sir Harry.

"Catherine, my dear, I have been looking for you—"

"Nevermind that now, I need your help."

I related the necessary facts. He immediately went and retrieved all that was needed—a cart, two stable hands, and several blankets.

He and I sat up front. Nothing was said between us other than the occasional direction from me while he drove. I could not have managed any other talk, so anxious was I for Henry and Thomas in my absence.

When we pulled into view, I saw Henry standing, leaning on headstone.

I went immediately to his side. "Henry— you must lie down! You are wounded terribly."

He was looking over my shoulder. I turned as Sir Harry approached.

Henry did not seem to hear me—his attention was settled completely on Sir Harry as he came into view. He suddenly lost his balance, falling to his knees, his focus entirely on the unconscious man. Henry's color did not look good, but Sir Harry looked worse, though I could not understand why he was so affected.

"Sir Harry? Are you quite alright? This is the friend of Henry's I mentioned." He appeared visibly shaken. An idea came to me. Did the sight of blood make him feel faint? My brother just younger than James suffered such a malady.

Sir Harry's eyes remained fixed upon Mr. Brearly.

"I did not think I'd ever see him again…" Sir Harry trailed off, and his face contorting with emotion. If he hadn't walked here himself, I'd guess he was the one shot, so pained was his expression.

Henry's voice was gravelly when he spoke. "Thank you for coming to our aid. It must have been difficult for you."

Sir Harry shook his head. "I did not know it was him."

"Would you not have come if you had?"

That comment broke the hold Mr. Brearly had on Sir Harry, and he shifted to look at Henry.

"Of course I would have." He took a deep breath, some color returning to his face. "Catherine tells me General Tilney will fetch a surgeon and we are to bring you both to the house. Let us not waste time with words."

Soon both men were laid down upon the blankets, and we went slowly back to the Abbey.

It appeared that Mr. Brearly was not unknown to Sir Harry—indeed, that all three men were connected somehow. I had not mentioned him by name, assuming it would be meaningless to Sir Harry.

Makeshift beds were set up on the ground floor, in one of the extra sitting rooms close to the stable. The surgeon was not long in coming.

Eleanor and I were shooed from of the room at the surgeon's arrival, and it was a full hour before we were fetched.

The General spoke quietly with the surgeon, and Sir Harry approached as we came in.

"How are they?" Eleanor asked right away, staying near the door.

I leaned against the door frame. Though I could not see them close up, both patients were laying down.

"Both are resting. Dr. Lawrence says they can be moved in an hour or so."

Eleanor nodded. "That is well then." She looked up and met his eyes, then asked, "What was father's reaction to Thomas?"

Sir Harry did not answer at first, his lips pressed together, and I realized that he looked heavily fatigued. "The General was…not happy. Thankfully Henry was still awake enough to conjure up an explanation, and thus there is a temporary stay of hostilities."

Eleanor covered her face with her hands in relief. I reached out and hugged her, trying to give what comfort I could. "They are both going to be well, Eleanor," I whispered to her. "Do not be uneasy."

"Not with you, my dear friend." She reached out, taking Sir Harry's hand tightly. "And you, Sir Harry, you have been so good to us. How can I ever thank you?"

His back stiffened, and though he did not retrieve his hand, he looked distinctly uncomfortable. With a troubled look, he said, "I have done less than you think."

"No, don't say that! Why, you have been a great friend to us all these past weeks, and without you, this morning would have been far more difficult. Please, do allow me to thank you."

He gave a tight nod, excused himself, and abruptly left the room.

—

While Eleanor was occupied arranging for Thomas's room to be prepared, I was staring mindlessly through the window into the quadrangle. There was a variety of beautiful plants that I had not studied well during my stay, and I decide to do so immediately. I returned to my room to put on suitable shoes, and came out a few minutes later.

"…supposed to be laying down, the surgeon—"

"The surgeon barely did anything. It was a merest knick, I tell you, I'm perfectly able to walk about."

The door to Henry's room was ajar, and voices drifted out. I shut my door, and listened.

"I can bring you anything to wish."

"No. There is a nefarious bandit about the area. I must go and report it to the magistrate."

"Anyone could go in your place."

"They do not know his looks. Only I or Thomas can identify him, and Thomas was injured far worse than I."

More arguing threatened to ensue. I made a hasty decision, and approached the door.

Henry, wearing a set of clean trousers and a half buttoned shirt, was arguing with a small man with a pointed nose. I had seen him about the place before. Henry's valet, I believed.

Henry's face colored. "Miss Morland, do excuse us. Hector should have closed the door behind him just now." He began fastening the rest of his shirt buttons. "My apologies for my appearance."

I raised my eyebrows. "Oh, Mr. Tilney, your appearance was far worse earlier, do not be concerned with such trifles.

He rose his eyebrows back, and I barely managed to keep my blush away. "I overheard what you said a moment ago and came to say that you are not the only one who can identify the man. I…we crossed paths when I was looking for you, and I saw him from only a yard away. I can give the report in your stead."

"What do you mean, you crossed paths?" His voice was too smooth, and it made me nervous.

I cleared my throat. "I mean, we ran into one another, quite literally. I thought it best not to give chase, seeing as how you and Mr. Brearly were very likely bleeding to death."

He stood motionless, staring at me. "I do not like that he saw you. I wish he had not."

"There was no helping the situation. I was able to follow his tracks and find you more quickly, so it had its use."

His voice fell to nearly a whisper. "Thank you for that."

I said, softly, "You're welcome."

Then, with a smile, "But I'm still not letting you report."

"You are so infuriating."

"I do my best."

I let out a disgruntled breath. "Well, I'm going with you. That way if you try and die again, it will be unsuccessful."

"Perfect. Let us go now."

His quick capitulation made me wary. But he had not taken a single step when his valet scrambled in front, protesting his masters dress.

I was alone in the hall only a moment before Henry emerged once more. This time, fully dressed. He looked so well I would not have guessed he'd been in sick bed that same day. He knocked and then ushered me into the fourth room in the hall—one I'd believed to be unused.

Eleanor was inside, sitting by Thomas's bedside.

They both looked over as we came in.

"What in heavens, Henry—I thought you were in surgery too? Though I don't remember any of it, thank the Lord."

"Mine was only a scratch," he said.

I could not let that lie. "It looked more like a gash to me. I'm making sure he doesn't do anything stupid today."

"Yes—Miss Morland and I have an arrangement." There was that smile again. I was growing concerned despite my best efforts to shrug off this latest game of his.

"Now," Henry continued, "how's the leg?"

"Brilliant, old chap. Never better. Glad to see your guts didn't fall out when he slashed you."

The men shared a grin.

"I need an accounting from you Thomas. I let you out of my sight for two days and you go and get yourself shot."

"He must have followed me. I'd left a trap for him in Bristol, and when I got word from you that you'd reached Woodston, I left it to the authorities. He was the last known member of the gang involved with the fallen stone."

"Did you ever discover why they knocked it over in the first place?" Eleanor asked.

Thomas shifted his attention to her, taking her hand once again. She blushed, and hid behind her hair a little. I tried not to let her see my smile. "I believe they were convinced the stones were hollow, and held some kind of Druish treasure. A load of foolish nonsense, and who knows when it'll be erected once more."

"We were just visiting Woodston," I said.

Thomas didn't reply, and looked to Henry. Henry's eyes twinkled a bit. "You know that cottage you were so very fond of?"

My face heated. "What of it?"

"Thomas was there. He's a regular guest at my home."

I still did not understand the particulars, but knew it would be useless to prove further.

I gave him my best veiled look. "Interesting." Then turned to Thomas. "Mr. Brearly, I'm so sorry to interrupt your narrative—do continue."

Though he looked exhausted and somewhat undignified in the nightshirt he had been dressed in, when he looked back and me and smiled—I envied Eleanor a little bit. He clearly adored her, and was not afraid to show it.

He said, "Oh yes, hmm. Well, Henry and I had arranged to meet this morning at my family's graveyard."

"That graveyard belonged to your family? I don't understand."

"There's a long and colorful past to do with me, Miss Morland. It's not exactly a secret. I lost my family's fortune in a game of chance one night, years ago, when I was drunk."

"Oh—I am so sorry. And your home?"

"It was never ours to begin with. A very old lease originating with General Tilney's great grandfather set up my family there two centuries ago. And we could no longer honor the terms." His face was totally devoid of feeling, born of years of burden I imagined.

I looked at the other faces in the room. Eleanor's, filled with compassion, and Henry—he was looking directly at me—stone-faced.

Henry stepped forward. "Thomas has done well for his family since then, becoming a forensic engineer, as you know. The loss was not his fault—I was there when it happened. We were all of us…inebriated…that night, and in the morning, when our heads beat against us, the other party—thought to be a close friend—would not do the honorable thing and return Thomas's IOUs."

"A game of chance when all involved are not in their right mind? How is such a game legal?"

"How indeed. And yet, Thomas's story is not so very uncommon."

Thomas spoke up. "Don't make me out to be so innocent, Henry. No one forced me to drink that night."

"You were among friends!" Henry said angrily. "You had every reason to feel secure among us. It was nothing short of a betrayal on his part."

Eleanor and I looked at each other, sharing in confusion.

Thomas was silent for a time, letting the emotions run down a little before saying, "It does no good to dwell on it. That era is past, and we have all moved on."

"Have we?"

A loud knock rang out, breaking up the heated exchange. Henry looked up in confusion, as though he'd forgotten there was a door at all.

I was closest, and went to open it.

Sir Harry stood alone outside the threshold. He did not appear surprised to see all who were within.

He cleared his throat. "I would like a private conference with Thomas, if I may." He looked questioningly first at Henry, then at Thomas.

Thomas shook as he spoke. "Of course."

Henry was the last to leave the room, glaring at Sir Harry as he closed the door behind him.

We went down the hall a little to a bench and sat.

"Is everything alright Henry?" said Eleanor. "You are distressed."

Henry said nothing, though the muscles around his mouth twitched, conflicted in his silence. Then he turned to Eleanor. "They have had enough time alone. Please, Eleanor, will you go back?"

Bewildered, Eleanor said, "It has only been a few minutes—there is nothing to—"

"Just go. Please, just go." He met her eyes, pleadingly.

She made no reply, but went to knock on Thomas's door, and disappeared inside.

Henry leaned forward, putting his head into his hands.

A minute passed. His breathing, quick at first, grew more even.

I wished I might sooth him in some way, but could think of nothing to offer.

"Do you wish to be alone?" I said, feeling rather awkward as the silence stretched on.

When he did not move or speak, I started pushing myself up from the bench.

His hand reached out, seizing mine.

It was damp. My eyes traveled to his face. His eyes were red, filled with emotion.

"Stay, Miss Morland, if you will," he said quietly.

I sat back down.

"Should I not be Catherine, now?" I said, reaching into my skirt pocket for something I'd put there upon dressing.

I drew out a folded handkerchief, and offered it to him.

His eyebrows rose. "This is mine."

"It's been laundered, I assure you."

"How did you—ah, yes. On the cliffs, you had a cold."

"Yes, on the cliffs. I am sorry it took me this long to return it."

He stared at it, turning it over, as if expecting something new to reveal itself.

"And why didn't you?"

"Why didn't I what?"

"Return it sooner."

"Oh. Uh, well, it was such a handy thing that I got used to carrying it, and on the occasions when I thought to give it you, it needed to be laundered again."

He discreetly touched around his eyes with the cloth. Then sat up. "You should have been Catherine ages ago."

"Perhaps."

"I think of you as Catherine you know. You don't know how close I've come to embarrassing myself several times."

I smiled. "You aren't the only one. Eleanor has repeated told me how ridiculous she thought it sounded when I called you Mr. Tilney. She imagines we are like brother and sister."

He kept his eyes down. "And are we?"

I sighed. I had no answer there. "May I call you Henry now?"

"Of course you may. I asked you to nearly two months ago."

"I thought that was a jest."

He looked up, his eyes widening in surprise. "It continues to astound me how little we understand one another, when so much is said and done. It was not a jest."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry you've been dragged into all this. I haven't been handling it very well, I'm afraid."

I shook my head. "I think you've done fine. Obviously I don't know all the details, but you've been very tolerant of Sir Harry when you didn't have to be."

"You—did he tell you about—"

"No. But you seem to deeply resent his presence here."

"That is true enough."

"I suppose your father does not know of your feelings against him?"

"No. I would never tell him either. Or anyone for that matter—" he turned to me, "I apologize if I've made you uncomfortable here. I suppose I haven't done as as well at concealing my feelings as I thought. It is a matter of honor."

"You always had more honor than anyone else I knew, Henry," Sir Harry said, his voice echoing down the hall as he approached, catching us both off guard. "It was rather difficult to be your friend sometimes."

Henry shot up from the bench, unwilling to be on uneven ground. "Perhaps we should talk in private, Harry."

Sir Harry looked down at me. "Catherine. It is you I wish to speak with. Shall we walk? There is something pressing I must ask you."

I looked beseechingly at Henry, hoping for an excuse—any excuse—to stay with him. But he once again wore his mask—that infuriating wretched mask that I hated—and I knew I had no choice. He was already siding away from us. I rose my eyebrows in question, and he said, "You must both excuse me."

His door closed behind him, and Sir Harry helped me to my feet. "I guess his presence would have been rather awkward for what I have to say."

He took me out of doors, to the stable, where I saw the Henry's horse and one other being groomed. I said, nervously, "Oh look, the horses found their way back."

Sir Harry towed me toward the side of the stable I'd first seen him and Henry arguing. The sun was on the opposite side, affording us some shade.

"Catherine. Did you know I came to Northanger for you, and you alone? I never had the smallest intention of allowing Hambletonian to stud here."

The suddenness of his pronouncement stunned me, and I leaned back against the outer wall of the stable.

"When I entered Bath, I deliberately avoided the social scene, determined as I was to avoid the throngs of ladies that seek my fortune. That is the reality my life has become, and I hope you do not see it as pompousness or conceit, for I recoil from such things. My rudeness in refusing to attend your debut was rooted in those feelings. I had not yet realized what a mistake that was, for I might have spent a few more moments in your company. There is no lady as unpretentious as you.

"Did you know, my dear, that I have grown to care deeply for you? From the moment we met, you were unlike any woman I'd ever known. You did not seem to care about my title, my wealth, or my fame. You seemed to like me only for my horse. And I had to respect you for that.

"Your modesty won me from the start. Did you know I went in search for frigate shaped buttons, just so I'd have an excuse to write Mrs. Allen?"

I nodded, staring blankly at him. I struggled to sift through the emotions that were assaulting me.

His came close, his body only a foot from my own. "And did you know," he said in a quiet voice, "that I wish to marry you?"

I felt pinned in place, unable to move or think. What was happening?

He took my hands from where they hung at my sides, his thumbs touching over the tops of my knuckles. "Marry me, Catherine. Marry me, and we will leave together—today. We can go to Fullerton together."

His eyes were so intense, so close.

"Please Catherine. Make me the happiest man. Marry me."

I stared into his handsome eyes. He cared deeply for me. He wanted me. He respected me. Did he love me? He hadn't said. Did I love him?

And that was the question. Did I love him?

My heart beat seemed to get louder, and the choking feeling of being alone in the dark came over me once more. It got louder, and louder, and the hand around my neck grasped tighter and tighter.

The spell was broken by a distant whinnying. I calmed down. I could breathe. And I knew the answer.

I was in love with Henry.


	41. 5 April 1798 PART 2

Henry. Not Harry. I didn't know it until that moment—not really. I'd pushed my feelings for Henry down so deep, I had tricked myself into thinking there weren't any.

But Harry, oh dear—Harry, stood there, waiting.

Could I marry one man while I loved another? There was no love between Harry and I, but there was friendship and real caring. Caring could grow into love, but there was no guarantee. I tried to picture our life together, ten, twenty, thirty years in the future. Would it be a disservice to both of us to marry him under such pretenses?

I had to answer. I took in a deep breath, doing what I never in a thousand years would have dreamt possible—turning down a marriage proposal from a wealthy, titled man I cared deeply for.

A tear ran down my cheek.

"I cannot marry you, Harry. I am so sorry," I said in a half whisper.

He stood there, a long moment while he absorbed what I'd just said. Then he dropped my hands, and took a step back.

"I see. Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?"

I began to shake my head, then stopped. "No, I am sorry if I misled you. I did not know my heart until this moment."

He nodded, unable to meet my eye. "I am leaving this afternoon. I'm afraid I cannot stay another night here. Not now."

"Oh—do not leave on my account, I won't say anything to anyone."

"No, it is not you. I may as well tell you—we are unlikely to meet again, and you have a right to know, I think."

"Know what?"

"What Henry would never tell you. The reason for our rift, of his resentment of my presence in this house —which I only braved for the chance to court you, and never intended to hurt him further."

I tipped my head in confusion. "You don't need to—"

"—I stole Thomas Brearly's fortune. That is the brutal truth of it. I am not proud of it, and I regret my actions. Especially all that has come as a result."

His words were like a battering ram on my skull. "I'm sorry, did you say you stole his fortune?"

He nodded.

"But, I thought he lost it in a card game?"

"He did, he lost it to me. Henry, Thomas and I were the best of friends at Oxford. When we were near to graduation, we sat down to a game of cards, and we were already dreadfully soused at the beginning. Henry didn't last very long, he passed out rather early. Thomas and I kept on. Thomas had run out of cash, and chose to put his families shares in the funds on the table, which was their main source of income. I won, and in the morning, I would not recant.

"Thomas withdrew from our company after that, quietly finishing up his engineering degree. At first, Henry did not know what had occurred, but he finally hounded it out of him. Then Henry turned on me, and challenged me to duel when I would not cancel the debt. Thomas never knew of it until after it was over."

He pulled down neck of his shirt, loosening his cravat, to reveal a tiny star shaped scar. "This is from Henry. Needless to say, he won the fight. I never saw him again—until three weeks ago, when he turned up here with you."

I was entirely dumbfounded by his narrative. Never would I have believed him capable of such a thing—looking at him, I still didn't.

"You know the rest. The Brearly's lost their home. Eleanor lost his fiance. And I lost the best friends I'd ever had."

"But you still didn't give back the money."

"No. What's done is done. When I first began to regret my choice, it was too late—my windfall had become common knowledge among my acquaintances and family. The money was put into my sister's dowries. I will not take that back from them, not when the reversal will damage their prospects to such an enormous degree. And the portion I kept for myself was eventually used to purchase and maintain Hambletonian."

I blanched. "Hambletonian? Purchased with Thomas's money? I cannot believe you are capable of such terrible things."

He looked into the wind, carrying more sounds from the lads at work. "The Brearly's seem to have landed on their feet. Their status has changed, but I think they are not unhappy."

"That is no justification for your actions. Would you have told me any of this, had I accepted your proposal?"

He laughed. "Of course not. You would have broken it off straightaway."

"You don't know that. But a marriage begun on lies is one I'm glad not to be a part of. Why did you tell me at all? No one else would have."

"And that is exactly it. Henry would never tell you. But, as you say, a marriage should not begin on lies. It is the only amends I can make to him."

"You are speaking riddles."

"Am I? Are you not in love with Henry?"

I did not answer, but the blush was clear enough.

He nodded. "Then he has won." He turned away, and started walking back toward the stable.

I followed him. "Henry doesn't think of me that way. He's never tried to court me, or anything resembling it."

"I know Henry well. It's his damned honor, you see. He would never interfere if he thought you cared for me. And I give you permission to share with Eleanor what I have told you. It's unlikely she knows the whole of it either."

I thought for a moment. "When are you going?"

"As soon as I can make my excuses to the General. Probably within the hour."

I nodded. "Then this is goodbye."

"It is. Goodbye, Catherine dear. I hope you will find your happiness."

"And you yours. Goodbye Harry."

We went together as far as the house, then parted ways.

Should I tell Henry what I had learned? I would have to if I had a mind to tell Eleanor, I didn't feel right telling her without consulting Henry first.

I suddenly felt starving, and realized I'd never gone down for lunch with all the commotion. I was in luck, as the cook had a lovely hand pie for me to take away. My favorite bench was behind the greenhouse. I ate there, quietly absorbed in my thoughts, and it was not until I had chewed and swallowed the last bite that I recalled Henry's errand to the magistrate.

I jumped up, crumbs flying, and hurried into the upper hall. After a quick knock to his door, his valet appeared behind it.

"He has gone, Miss Morland. To the magistrate."

"Oh! I hoped he would wait for me. Thank you, Hector, is it?"

"Yes, miss."

"Can you tell me anything about the magistrate?"

A hint of a smile appeared. "I do not like to tell his secrets, but the magistrate is his father, General Tilney."

"His father? No wonder he did not argue with my coming. And here I thought he was launching into mortal danger. Thank you Hector."

Any concern I'd felt for Henry fled the instant I learned it was only the General. He'd been teasing me the whole time, letting me think he was going on a dangerous mission. I fell for his shenanigans every time.


	42. 6-9 April 1798

The General left on business to London the following day, leaving the household and magistrate responsibilities to Henry. Little had been said at dinner the previous evening over Sir Harry's departure, and everyone seemed to be just as well, or better, without his presence. Even the General had been in a terrific mood.

I was probably the quietest of the group. I'd decided not to tell Henry or Eleanor about the proposal. Sir Harry was gone, and I didn't think Henry or Thomas wished for any reminder of him. Thomas was not able to come down for dinner, but he felt well enough the next day to try and descend the stairs with some assistance.

He'd just arrived at the bottom of the stairs that opened into the drawing room where I was sitting with my ribbon embroidery. My last project in it had been totally unrecognizable as a flower, but I had a new idea that I imagined would be a sight easier. I was embroidering a bookshelf.

I looked up to see him and Eleanor approach. "You are looking well, Mr. Brearly. You've got some real color now."

"I suspect some of that is due to being in this house for the first time in four years! I've never seen Eleanor for more than a few minutes at a time and she's given me a bloom in my cheek."

Eleanor smiled sideways at him, but her lip trembled, and I was instantly concerned. Henry came down soon after to show Thomas the greenhouse, and I was alone with Eleanor for the first time in two days.

She sat down beside me, attempting to smile, but a lonely tear fell upon her blouse.

"My dear Eleanor, "I said, "Tell me what is the matter. Are you not happier than you've been in ages, with Thomas here?"

"Yes, and no. Oh, Catherine. It only makes it harder that he is here. I have known for four years we could not marry. My father would never consent to it. I did not mind my father's forbidding our seeing one another. It was kinder than he knew."

"But, if the situation were explained to your father—that Thomas was taken advantage of, and not wholly at fault—would not your father relent?"

"Oh—no Catherine. It is as it was with Frederick and Isabella. My father cares not about the scandal surrounding the loss of fortune, indeed, his family is not widely known. It is simply that it was lost. My father cares for money more than you think."

This cast my own situation into a new light. Was I not poor compared to the wealth of the Tilney's? The General's kind treatment of me had been so very misleading that I believed he cared not for money at all. He must know Henry had no interest in me, or else I would never have been invited.

I slumped down a little in my chair, my good mood deflated.

To Isabella, I said none of this. Instead, I said, "But, are you not nearly of age? You could marry without his consent."

She clasped her hands in her lap. "That is something I would never do. I would not choose to bring shame upon my family, and I would probably never see my father again. He is not a tender man, but he is my father, and I love and respect him."

"I see." I put my hand over hers. "I'm so sorry."

—

The follow day was Sunday, and though Thomas was well enough to join us, he declined. His presence was still a secret for the most part, but enough of the servants had seen him that the news was spreading.

Sunday and the two days following were strange indeed. I felt as though we all held our breath. There was plenty of laughter and enjoyment of each others company—the General's absence alone made for a lighter mood—but the cloud over Eleanor and Thomas was palpable. That, combined with my reluctance to seek out Henry, made for an awkward few days.

Thomas left on Tuesday by coach, with arrangements to return home to Bristol. The doctor had cleared him of any risk of infection, and he could walk easily, though riding was still uncomfortable for him.

Scouts had been monitoring the area, and nothing further had been seen of his attacker. I think, had he been well enough to ride, that Henry would still have insisted upon the coach, as it was a far more concealed mode of travel.

And then, it was just the three of us again, though the somber mood did not shake off immediately. At dinner that evening, I said, "It has occurred to me, that I've been here nearly a month."

I'd thought many times how to bring up the topic of my length of stay, and had grown to wonder if I had already overstayed my welcome. As no length of visit had been specified, I supposed a month to be a unit of time I could rely upon.

But upon my utterance, I was met with blank stares. I continued, "I could not leave with the General away, certainly, but I feel obliged to return to Fullerton after that."

Eleanor said quickly, "Oh, please do not say that—have recent events affected you so very much?"

"No, that is, yes of course, but I do not wish to overstay my welcome."

Eleanor said, "I had hoped for the pleasure of your company for a much longer time—I cannot but think that if Mr. And Mrs. Morland were aware of my feelings that they would be generous enough to allow you to stay longer."

"Oh, but of course they would allow it—"

"Eleanor," Henry broke in, "I think Catherine may have a pressing reason to return home. Is that not so?"

The last sentence directed at me, he raised his eyebrows expectantly. We ate cozily at one end of the table, in close quarters, and there was no centerpiece to block him from my view.

I searched his face, confused at what he could mean.

"I'm afraid I do not understand you."

He put down his fork, the clank echoing around the quiet of the dining room. "I do not wish to force your hand. When you did not explain yourself before, I assumed you were waiting for Thomas's departure. Well, now he is gone."

"Henry," began Eleanor, "there is no need to berate her."

I looked across the table at him, the truth dawning.

He knew. He had known all along.

I spoke slowly, trying to stay calm. "I can think of only one reason why you would assume I have a pressing reason to return home. And I assure you, if it were the case, I should have said so immediately."

"They why did you not?"

I threw up my hands, my voice raising a notch. "There was nothing to say!"

Eleanor stood up, arresting our attention. "What are you two talking of? And will you stop this bickering? Henry, you've been on edge for days. There is no need to take it out on Catherine."

"Are you not engaged to Harry? Needn't you run home and prepare for your nuptials?"

The antagonism in his voice was the exact reason I hadn't wished to discuss it. My association with Sir Harry had muddied Henry's view of me.

"What?" Eleanor said, shock in her voice. "When did this happen?"

I took a deep breath. I said, softly, "It did not happen. I am not engaged."

"Oh." Eleanor said.

"I know he proposed to you," Henry went on, unrelenting in his interrogation. "I knew what his intentions were. Before he left, he told me I should expect to hear happy news very soon."

I screwed my forehead up in a knot—such words made no sense. But—happy news—that could only refer to…oh. Harry must have been referring what I'd admitted to feeling for Henry.

I met his gaze, intense and heart wrenching as it was.

"He did propose," I said. "And I refused."

There was silence all around.

Eleanor had sat back down long past, and now leaned toward me, speaking in a kind voice, "Why did you not tell us, Catherine? Were you too upset to speak of it?"

"No, nothing like that. It didn't seem relevant." I turned my gaze on Henry. "Of course, I had no idea you knew all this time Henry. I did not want to tell you in particular. Harry told me about your…past. I thought you would not wish to speak of him."

Henry was caught off guard by my revelation, and appeared stunned.

I picked up my fork, wishing to break the tension. I looked to Eleanor. "I'm so sorry Eleanor, I should have told you. There is no pressing reason for me to return home, only my own sense of concern regarding your expectations of my length of stay. I have never been a house guest before now, and I'm afraid I'm not familiar with how to discuss these things tactfully."

She took my hand. "You are doing just fine, Catherine. And it would please me for you to stay on. I can't believe we are nearing a month—it feels like we've only just arrived. What do you think, Henry? Should Catherine stay for a while longer?"

He gave me the first smile I'd seen in days. "Yes, a grand idea. Do stay, Catherine."

I blinked, and intentionally looked back at Eleanor before answering that I would certainly stay. The rest of the evening proceeded on a far lighter note than the dining room had ever seen. I felt relieved that my secret was out in the open, and that all was well notwithstanding.

I retired early, mentally exhausted from first working up the courage to talk about my departure, and then all that had ensued as a result.

My sleep was the least troubled it had been in weeks. After the nightmare of my first night here, I'd had many nights following of fitful sleep, some nice dreams, and some terrible ones. I had grown to miss my dreamless nights.

When I awoke the following morning, I could recall no dream, but only the single image of Henry's smile.


	43. 10-12 April 1798

The mood of the days that followed was reminiscent of those in Bath—carefree and relaxed. We were once again the inseparable trio, always in one another's company, except for the morning rides from which Eleanor continued to abstain. We spent one afternoon in the garden, another fishing, but we most of all just sat together. Sometimes we would read plays together, and others we talked over what we were reading on our own.

There was a subtle change in us all. I knew I did not keep secrets well, and in keeping the proposal secret I had erected an invisible barrier around myself. With the secret out, the barrier had fallen.

Eleanor, too, was back to her usual self. She had never been an exuberant sort, but she began making shy jokes and falling back into herself.

Henry, I realized, had been unnaturally quiet in the time that Harry was at Northanger. He seemed so very comfortable now. I spent little time thinking of Harry's words

News came on Friday from Woodston—Henry's curate would not be able to deliver the sermon the following Sunday due to a previous engagement.

"Dash it all. I'd forgotten about it—he told me months ago," Henry said after dinner that evening as the three of us walked outside at sunset. "I'll go down in the morning tomorrow. I'm sure father will understand the necessity, though I told him I would stay whilst he was away."

"But there have been no sightings of the bandit?" I said.

"None at all."

"Then there is no reason for concern, I am sure," I said.

"But you must take a groom with you if you ride during my absence. You shouldn't be alone out in the open so soon after recent events."

I paused. "Very well."

We were nearing the outer door to the kitchens, when Eleanor said, "I will speak with cook for a moment about your breakfast, Henry. I suspect you will leave quite early. Please excuse me."

We stopped while she turned and went inside.

"That was rather odd," he said.

I looked up at him. "Does she not have regular meetings with the cook?"

"Yes, but I never knew her to fuss about my breakfast before."

"Perhaps she fusses without mentioning it."

His eyebrow lifted pointedly. "Perhaps."

"There is something I've been meaning to ask you," I began. "Sir Harry gave me leave to tell Eleanor of his involvement in Thomas's situation."

Henry stilled, tension visibly spreading throughout his body. "Did you?"

"No. I wondered if you thought it a good idea."

He put his hand over his face in exasperation. "By the devil. My amazement at his confession has stayed with me all week. I have many quarrels with the man, but—but in telling you such a history, he made it impossible for you to accept him."

I sighed. "Should I tell her or not, Henry? I can leave out the part about the duel if you prefer."

His eyes flashed. "He told you that as well? He had no right to tell you without my leave. He should never have discussed it with a lady."

His words were too provoking to let pass. I gave him a stern look. "I have three older brothers, Henry. I don't need any more. I'll decide whether to tell her for myself then. Let us not speak any further—we can do nothing but quarrel. Goodbye."

He started to say something, but I gave no quarter in my anger. I would not look back at his face. I walked away, hurrying into the house and into my room.

Half an hour later, after dressing for bed and letting myself cry for a bit, I relaxed on the bed, my mind hovering just beyond the point of thought.

A soft knock came from the door. "Come in."

I fully expected Eleanor to come in, but it was not she.

I sat up, my hair falling over the lace trimmed nightgown I wore.

Henry walked in, then a blush came over his face, mirroring my own. "I beg your pardon, I hadn't realized—indeed, I was not thinking clearly just now." He had turned and was passing back through the door, the moonlight from the corridor casting his figure into silhouette. "Wait—" I said quickly, my words halting his departure.

I slid off the side of the bed, and pulled my wrapper over my shoulders. "I did tell you to come in, after all." My voice shook slightly as I spoke.

"Yes," he said, slowly, still facing away. "I shall hold to that excuse, and push forward then. I wished to apologize for earlier."

"It was nothing, do not trouble yourself."

A moment passed in silence, and his head turned a fragment to the side. His body radiated tension, as though he could not make up his mind to stay or depart.

Stay. I willed him silently.

He extended his hand toward the door handle, and began to close it behind him. He was leaving then.

In a swift movement, he stepped aside and shut us both in.

Together.

Alone.

My heartbeat was in rapid fire.

"But I must trouble myself," he said quietly. "I cannot bear to have you think ill of me, not anymore. I will tell you frankly that embarrassment was at the root of my behavior. I should have been the one to tell you, not Harry." He kept his back to me, speaking to the door.

I shook my head, the motion automatic though I knew he could not see it. "It was not your secret to tell."

"But I could have warned you, without giving all the details. Then you might not be suffering now, as you are."

I bent my head, struck by his choice of words."Suffering?"

My response broke his resolve to stay away. He advanced around the four poster bed, coming upon the far side where I stood. His face clear in the candlelight, he said, "I know you, Catherine."

Again, in a whisper, "I know you."

I shook my head again, confusion overtaking my senses. "I don't understand. The bandit gave me no injury, I promise you."

"No," he said, as though the words were being dragged out. "I am speaking of Harry. When I look at you, I see your anguish at his loss. Your attempts to conceal a broken heart have not gone unnoticed, and I can see how his revelation has shattered your spirits." He held his arms tense at his sides and gave a sad smile. "I must give him some credit, telling you must have taken some courage, and then still to propose in the face of it—"

"—No!" I said, vehemently, "you are wrong." My frustration from the hour before returned full force, and my hands shook with the emotion coursing through me. "If you sense a broken heart—" my voice wavered with the truth of it, "—you are entirely mistaken."

The lie felt bitter on my tongue. I wished for the freedom to tell him he was the cause of it. And yet, I was bound, unable to speak my feelings, the restraints put upon me by his own hand.

Before my courage faltered completely, I continued, "I find your postulation remarkable considering how little I told you of the matter. Furthermore—though it is none of your business—he only told me all after I had refused him."

His hand gripped the bedpost. "You refused him beforehand?"

I gave a small nod.

"Why refuse the hand of the man you love? And with no evidence against him? Did you suspect?"

"I don't love him Henry. I never have." Flushed with embarrassment, I said, "He was a friend, one of the first to value my opinion. And I did rather like his horse and the notion of having his stable for my own. I am ashamed that I unknowingly led him to the point where he had to be refused at all, so little did I know my own heart."

I could not look at him while speaking thus, knowing the disapproval I would see. "Must you always discover every foolish notion of mine? Yes- I considered a marriage based in friendship and convenience, as many have done before me. But it is not for me. I know that now."

After a few moments, I felt his hand touch my chin, and turned my head toward his. Letting his hand drop, his eyes met mine. A shiver went down my spine.

An eternity passed before he spoke. "You have changed from when we first met, you know."

My eyes searched his face. "A little life experience, I suppose."

He went to the door and opened it. "You've given me something to do while I'm at Woodston."

"Have I?"

"I've long had the notion to expand my stables there, but postponed it for other estate improvements. If you like, I'll bring back the plans for it and you can give me your opinion on Monday. What do you say, three o' clock, behind the greenhouse?"

"I suppose if you know of my fondness for that spot, then you are worthy of an interview, though I shan't hold back criticism on any errors I find."

The first real smile of the evening spread over his face. "I live for your criticism, Catherine. My life's blood, I assure you."

He was nearly through the door before he stopped once more and turned back. "Oh, and Catherine," he said, his eyes mischievous, "I'm afraid I miscalculated which room you'd be assigned upon your arrival. Miranda's papers are in the room Thomas slept in. I offer you my sincerest apologies for such a grievous error."

And with a wink, he shut the door, my mouth hanging open.


	44. 13 April 1798

Henry left for Woodston at first light, leaving Eleanor and I to our own devices. Just the two of us at dinner, we sampled a little brandy while she pretended to be the General, and I Henry. We were in fits, laughing so hard we barely realized the hour had gotten so late—it was nearly eleven before we quit the supper room. We had just reached the head of the stairs when the sound of a carriage pulling up caught our ears.

"Good heaven! What can be the matter?" said Eleanor, surprised by the unusual circumstance. "It must be Frederick! Only he would arrive suddenly at such an hour."

As Eleanor went to greet her brother, I walked on to my chamber. The thought of meeting Captain Tilney after the unpleasantness in Bath was daunting. I'd wished never to see him again, but as further acquaintance was inevitable, I spent the next few minutes considering how I should act around him.

Eleanor did not return until I had given up seeing her again that night. She knocked and came into my room after I'd donned my night dress, and was attempting to record something of my recent adventures in my diary.

I looked up at her entrance, smiling at the pleasure of seeing her.

My smile faded after seeing the expression on her face. I entreated her to be seated, and began to express my concern over her uneasiness.

"My dear Catherine, you must not—you must not indeed—" were Eleanor's first connected words. "I am quite well. This kindness distracts me—I cannot bear it—I come to you on such an errand!"

"An errand? To me?"

"How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I tell you!"

A new idea now darted into my mind, and whilst the blood drained from my face, I exclaimed, "'Tis a messenger from Woodston!"

"You are mistaken, indeed," returned Eleanor, looking at me most compassionately. "It is no one from Woodston. It is my father himself."

His unlooked-for return was enough in itself to make my heart sink, and for a few moments I hardly supposed there was anything worse to be told. Eleanor soon went on. "You are too good, I am sure, to think the worse of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a most unwilling messenger. After what has so lately passed, so lately been settled between us—how joyfully, how thankfully on my side!—as to your continuing here as I hoped for many, many weeks longer, how can I tell you that your kindness is not to be accepted—and that the happiness your company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by—But I must not trust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My father has recollected an engagement that takes our whole family away on Monday. We are going to Lord Longtown's, near Hereford, for a fortnight. Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I cannot attempt either."

"My dear Eleanor," I said, suppressing my feelings as well as I could, "do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give way to a first. I am very, very sorry we are to part—so soon, and so suddenly too; but I am not offended, indeed I am not. I can finish my visit here, you know, at any time; or I hope you will come to me. Can you, when you return from this lord's, come to Fullerton?"

"It will not be in my power, Catherine."

"Come when you can, then."

Eleanor made no answer; and my thoughts went to my own departure. "Monday—so soon as Monday; and you all go. Well, I am certain of—I shall be able to take leave, however. I need not go till just before you do, you know. Do not be distressed, Eleanor, I can go on Monday very well. My father and mother's having no notice of it is of very little consequence. The general will send a servant with me, I dare say, half the way—and then I shall soon be at Salisbury, and then I am only nine miles from home."

"Ah, Catherine! Were it settled so, it would be somewhat less intolerable, though in such common attentions you would have received but half what you ought. But—how can I tell you?—tomorrow morning is fixed for your leaving us, and not even the hour is left to your choice. The very carriage is ordered, and will be here at seven o'clock, and no servant will be offered you."

I sat down, breathless and speechless. Eleanor continued, "I could hardly believe my senses when I heard it. And no displeasure, no resentment that you can feel at this moment, however justly great, can be more than I myself—but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! That I could suggest anything in extenuation! Good God! What will your father and mother say! After courting you from the protection of real friends to this—almost double distance from your home, to have you driven out of the house, without the considerations even of decent civility! Dear, dear Catherine, in being the bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself of all its insult. Yet, I trust you will acquit me, for you must have been long enough in this house to see that I am but a nominal mistress of it, that my real power is nothing."

"Have I offended the general?" I said, my voice faltering.

"Alas! For my feelings as a daughter, all that I know, all that I answer for, is that you can have given him no just cause of offense. He certainly is greatly, very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him more so. His temper is not happy, and something has now occurred to ruffle it in an uncommon degree. Some disappointment, some vexation, which just at this moment seems important, but which I can hardly suppose you to have any concern in, for how is it possible?"

I forced myself to speak. "I am sure," I said, "I am very sorry if I have offended him. It was the last thing I would willingly have done. But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement, you know, must be kept. I am only sorry it was not recollected sooner, that I might have written home. But it is of very little consequence."

"I hope, I earnestly hope, that to your real safety it will be of none; but to everything else it is of the greatest consequence: to comfort, appearance, propriety, to your family, to the world. Were your friends, the Allens, still in Bath, you might go to them with comparative ease—a few hours would take you there. But a journey of seventy miles, to be taken post by you, at your age, alone, unattended!"

"Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that. And if we are to part, a few hours sooner or later, you know, makes no difference. I can be ready by seven. Let me be called in time. And my horse? Has anything been arranged for her transport?"

"I will assign my personal groom to see her returned to you."

I gave a short nod.

I wished desperately for the conversation to be over before I should cry in front of her. Eleanor must have sensed my distress, for she withdrew immediately, pausing only to say, "I shall see you in the morning."

I did not see Eleanor leave, but the sound of the door closing jolted me from the cast down posture of the conversation. I sunk down upon the bed, tears rushing out in torrents.

Turned from the house, and in such a way! Without any reason that could justify, any apology that could atone for the abruptness, the rudeness—nay—the insolence of it. Henry at a distance—not able even to bid him farewell. And all this by such a man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore so particularly fond of me! He could not know I did not return the feelings. It was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would end, were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm. The manner in which it was done so grossly uncivil, hurrying me away without any reference to my own convenience, or allowing me even the appearance of choice as to the time or mode of travelling. Of two days, the earliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest hour, as if resolved to have me gone before he was stirring in the morning, that he might not be obliged even to see me. What could all this mean but an intentional affront? By some means or other I must have had the misfortune to offend him. Eleanor had wished to spare me from so painful a notion, but I could not believe it possible that any injury or any misfortune could provoke such ill will against a person not connected, or, at least, not supposed to be connected with it.

Did Henry know of this? Could the General have consulted with him at Woodston earlier this evening? I recoiled from the thought. He would not have told the General about my guilty conjectures—

But what else could be the cause? Henry may have borne my presence as long as possible for his sisters sake, but perhaps this was his way of cutting ties with me. Could I believe him capable of such deceit?

Had I asked myself that question in the first month of our acquaintance, the answer would have been a decided yes. But were we not friends now, on his side at least, and a great deal more on mine? Or could he be ashamed of my connection with a man he clearly loathed so much he had sought to end his life?

These questions plagued me into the night. I slept not at all.

That room, wherewith I had passed such an agitated first night, would see me agitated again on the last. Yet how different the source of my inquietude, how mournfully superior in reality and substance. My anxiety had foundation in fact, my fears in probability, and with a mind so occupied in the contemplation of actual and natural evil, the solitude of my situation and the darkness of my chamber, the antiquity of the building—these were all felt and considered without the smallest emotion. The wind was high and often produced strange and sudden noises throughout the house, and I heard it all as I lay awake, hour after hour, but without curiosity or terror.

Henry was perfectly right. I had changed.


	45. 14 April 1798

Eleanor came to my room shortly after six. We spoke no words between us, the difficulty of the situation heavy on us both. We finished up the little packing I had left before descending to the breakfast room.

I had no appetite, eating little. The memories of previous breakfasts were fresh in my mind.

I tormented myself in the silence with such thoughts. Eleanor was as deep in reflection as I, and the arrival of the carriage startled us both. She seemed now impelled into resolution and speech.

"You must write to me, Catherine," she said quickly. "You must let me hear from you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall not have an hour's comfort. For one letter, at all risks, all hazards, I must entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe at Fullerton, and have found your family well, and then, till I can ask for your correspondence as I ought to do, I will not expect more. Direct to me at Lord Longtown's, and, I must ask it, under cover to Alice."

Was she not even able to receive a letter from me? I could not face her, and kept my eyes down. "No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am sure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home safe."

Eleanor heaved a tremulous breath, such that I felt impelled to look at her. The sadness in her face changed my mind instantly. "Nay, Eleanor," I said, "I will write to you indeed."

I was soon in the carriage, and Northanger Abbey nearly out of sight as I was driven away. Eleanor had made certain I was prepared for the expenses of the journey, which I had not even considered. I felt her thoughtfulness deeply. Without it, I would have been turned from the house without even the means of getting home.

The chaise deposited me a few miles off. The sky was clear, and so as I waited I was at least dry and comfortable. I knew not where I was, nor the name of my destination on the next leg of my journey. But I did know it was a long journey, nearly seventy miles.

Medusa would have been a fine riding companion, but for the distance and my cumbersome luggage. And there would still have been the issue of navigating the unfamiliar roads. I was a great deal safer aboard the stage.

That the general had not come after me himself, sending Eleanor to do his errand, signified his disgust. Were he truly sorry to have forgotten the engagement, would he not have been as courteous in explaining it to me as he had not ten days past in his flowery farewell speech? Though heaven knows I despised the man, I still wished for his regard, and I felt my spirits sink further with every minute that I failed to convince myself that the true reason I was sent away was his discovery of my former suspicions on his character.

There was no other reason I could fathom. Had I not been a polite house guest? I did not dazzle with music or any talent of exhibition—but he had other reasons to value my presence I was certain. Up until the moment he wished me gone, he had wanted me there. Indeed, his close attentions had been beyond my comfort level.

My mind dwelled on these thoughts whilst I awaited the coach. The faint sound of hoofbeats came to my ears. The stage was coming-I had never ridden by stage coach, and felt a small flutter as it grew closer.

I would board that coach, and leave behind the horror of the last twelve hours. My family would be happy to see me no matter the circumstance. I closed my eyes, taking in a deep breath in my attempt to throw off the weight from my shoulders. Everything would be fine, and I would write Eleanor to reassure her upon my return home.

But when I reopened my eyes, certain to see the coach approaching, I saw only a single horse with a lone rider. Fear shot through me, recognition settling in. It was the bandit I had seen at close quarters the day of the attack.

I turned, set to break into a run, but my foot caught on the corner of my forgotten luggage and I tumbled over the trunk. Moments before my head hit the rocky ground, I looked upward. The blue sky had turned gray. And then a jolt as my head connected, and all went black.

I awoke to a throbbing pain on the back of my head. A stillness surrounded me, broken only by the distant sound of flowing water. My muscles engaged, but I found that I was bound hand and foot. My breath came more rapidly and I tugged against my bonds, my disorientation slowly dispelling as my senses awakened.

The room had a single window, through which I could see nothing but trees and sparse sunlight. I struggled to sit up. Though my hands were bound in front, I was stiff and awkward from lack of movement. Once upright I gained a better view of my surroundings, but there was nothing to see except a bare room.

I was in a cabin of sorts, perhaps a fisherman's cabin near a stream. For the moment, I was alone, but the man who shot Thomas could return at any moment. The door was closed, but after an awkward scuttle across the floor, I tested the doorknob. Locked.

More time passed. Searching the room proved fruitless as there was not a single nail or rubbish scrap that could be useful for cutting through rope. Cries for help went unanswered. And I grew hungry. My next to nothing breakfast had not helped the matter.

In all my physical distress, I felt remarkably calm—a great surprise as I'd grown upset quite easily with scares in the past. There was nothing I could do, it was true, but really, I could not fathom what the bandit wanted with me. Did he imagine me some valued guest? If he did know of my disgraceful exit from Northanger, that was surely not in my benefit, as he would know any ransom attempted on my behalf would not be paid.

A door opened and slammed shut, and heavy footsteps approached until the door was thrown open.

"Awake at last, I see?"

The mud on his boots told me we were indeed near a stream. I cursed my poor knowledge of the area. How could I get out of a mess if I did not even know its location?

"Why am I here? I don't even know you."

"We've a mutual acquaintance, that blackguard Brearly."

"Acquaintance? I would hardly call it that."

"Aye, you're far more to him than acquaintance. I figure, if I can't catch him, then I'll catch his girl. He'll come right to me after that."

"His girl indeed. He cares nothing for me. You'll not see him on my behalf."

"You'd best pray otherwise. Without him, you're of no use to me."

I was a least valuable in theory then. "And am I to stay tied up until he gallantly rides to my rescue? He's a long way off." Upon his departure I had been informed he would make his way to Bristol, but that was by no means certain. I did not like thinking my fate rested in knowing the unknown whereabouts of a man I barely knew.

He approached me slowly, reaching down to untie my hands and feet. "I'll allow you some privacy at the stream. Come on."

The next moment, his back was to me and the door was open. After my shock at his actions subsided, it took me near a minute to stand, so cramped and sore were my limbs. Were it not for that soreness, I might have attempted to get away, but chose not to press my luck just yet.

He was as good as his word, granting me a few minutes to myself. He made perfunctory conversation, and my replies were what won those moments, as he knew I was still near.

He beckoned me inside and did not retie me. Cheese and bread sat upon the table, along with a flask. He gestured silently, and I immediately tore into the food and drink, which turned out to be watered down wine.

I felt his eyes on me throughout the meal. "Where is my trunk?" I said after taking the last bite.

His coarse chuckle echoed around the sparse chamber. "Most likely stolen by now. Had I a wagon I would have taken it with me when I found you—best piece of luck I've had in ages, setting upon the daughter of the big abbey so easily. When I learned Brearly had given me the slip, I had a mind to take you for ransom but hadn't yet figured how to do it. But you made it so easy. When I saw you running off without a maid, I knew it could only mean one thing. You were on your way to meet Brearly. And a fine lady like yourself wouldn't risk herself in such a way without knowing she would be gaining the protection of a husband."

His speech was accented by a wicked grin that turned sinister, and the chilled air of night touched my skin. "If he doesn't come for you by morning, you'll pay the consequences. I've sent a message of your whereabouts to the posting in you were to meet him at, where the stage was headed."

A shudder passed through my spine, deepening the chill I felt. He thought I was Eleanor, eloping with Thomas. His actions made far more sense to me now. But how to act now that I knew? If I revealed myself, was there any chance of him releasing me? Or would I become a convenient woman to keep or dispose at his will?

No. Silence was my best option. I had no illusions that my captor would see me better that my circumstances. If my hosts did not value me enough to ensure my safe return home, why should this blackguard care about my fate?


	46. 15-17 April 1798

I lay on the floor that night, knowing it could be my last. My captor had not tied my hands or feet, but slept close enough to the door that I could hear his steady breathing. There was no moonlight by which to reexamine the room, though I tried anyway.

Morning finally came. I had not slept.

It was Monday. I imagined Henry would be leaving Woodston soon, but whether my absence would be a surprise to him I knew not. And would never know.

Dim light filtered in through the dirt spotted glass, but my captor did not stir. I had waited all night for this moment.

I approached the door, soft of foot, and put my hand to the doorknob, which I could now see the outline of.

It yielded.

Without allowing myself a second thought to my good fortune, I opened the door and peered out. He lay on his back, a little away from the door, his head turned toward me. He smelled of brandy.

I walked softly around him and left the cabin.

His horse was nearby, I knew, and getting to it was the next step in my hasty plan. My survey of the area the evening before in my fleeting moments at the stream had given me little information, except that his horse was not tied on that side.

It was not long before I located the animal. The poor horse looked to be ill-treated and undernourished. I hoped he was not much attached to his master, and stroked and soothed him during the precious minutes it took to untie and saddle him. If my captor came out, I could abandon the saddle and ride bareback if I had to, though I knew it would add further hardship to the journey ahead.

Just as I was climbing up, the voice of my captor rang out from inside. Curses flew through the air, but I paid them no heed. I urged the horse into a gallop toward the widest path, and were out of sight before the gunshots hissed through the air around us.

I kept on, riding deeper into the surrounding wood, the way totally unfamiliar. After an hour of riding I stopped at a stream and allowed the horse to drink and graze on the fresh spring grasses upon its banks. I too drank from the stream, and checked the saddlebags for whatever contents they held.

They were empty except for a wineskin, which I filled at the stream.

After that passed three of the most unusual days of my life.

I should have arrived home Sunday night. But as my family was not aware that I had left Northanger, I was grateful they did not have days of worry before I would arrive at home.

I'd been exceedingly fortunate to come upon an older farming couple near midday the first day. They gave me a bundle of food and much needed directions. I was also given the name and address of the couple's daughter near Bath, so I would not need to risk myself with any other strangers.

I thanked them profusely, promised to remember them in the future, and went on my way. Were it not for their kindness…I could not even contemplate. A thousand different fates await an unprotected young woman traveling alone. Thanks to the couple I met, mine was a kinder one. I made my bed that evening in the same tree to which I'd tied the horse, which felt safer to me than sleeping upon the ground.

Early the next morning I visited the daughter spoken of, with the excuse of delivering a letter from her mama. She thanked me with a meal for me and the horse, and further directions to Salisbury.

Those were long days of riding, and my skills as a rider were drawn upon at every moment. Once in Salisbury I allowed myself to relax. My family was known at certain establishments, and I applied to one of them for a room with the horse as security, promising payment from my father upon his arrival. A message would be delivered Wednesday morning to Fullerton, and I expected to see my father before supper the next day.

A knock at my door roused me from my sleep. I blinked rapidly, unable to see at first, until I saw the dawn light flooding through my window.

The knock came again, and I recognized my father's voice, calling out to me. I rushed over to let him in, tears already wetting my cheeks as I let myself relax in his arms.

He was full of questions for me, which continued through breakfast and the carriage ride home. I found myself recounting my eviction from Northanger and all that followed, telling it dispassionately as though it had happened to someone else.

And indeed it had.

I had been balanced on the edge of a blade since receiving emotionally devastating news the past Saturday evening. Then to have my life and personal safety threatened by a ruffian who might have killed or raped me at any time. The first two nights of the ordeal I slept not at all, the third only fitfully. The fourth night, the previous night, I had finally been able to rest, but I was not recovered. My mind was only now processing all that had occurred. Looking back, I was amazed at myself. Riding seventy miles by myself was no small feat, and I had done it without a second thought.

"I am exhausted, Papa. It seems a dream that I am sitting in this carriage with you. I am so looking forward to being at home again." I stared out the window, watching the countryside of Wiltshire pass us by. "I'm amazed that my message got to you so quickly. I hadn't expected you until the afternoon."

"I was grateful to receive it last night when the courier arrived. We were all frantic."

"Oh, no Papa! And I had taken comfort in knowing you had no idea I was in any danger. How did you know?"

He hesitated a moment. "A message from Northanger Abbey arrived in late afternoon."

The news was startling. "From Northanger? How can that be?"

Papa settled back against his seat. "You shall see it for yourself when we arrive. Perhaps you should take a little more rest before your siblings pounce on you, for you'll be unlikely to have another opportunity before nightfall."

"Yes. You are right, I shall. But I hope they wait to pounce until I have changed my dress. Tis covered in filth, as am I."

"I'm sure they will." His eye twinkled as he spoke, and I wondered if a hot bath awaited me at home.

What a delight that would be. I could think of nothing else until slept overtook me.

I awoke as we entered the village.

The carriage pulled into the drive, and I saw my brothers playing catch with James beside the house. No, it couldn't be James—he was in London.

My father went out before me, and helped me down. I was hardly three steps from the coach when a tall figure came bounding around the house, then stopped in his tracks.

It was Henry.

I said swiftly to Papa, "he brought the message?"

"Yes, my dear."

My family flooded out of the kitchen doors, clambering around me, everyone talking at once. I broke away from Henry's intense gaze, greeting Mama and Sarah, and my younger siblings who had missed me, but likely knew nothing more than that their eldest sister had returned after a long visit.

Sarah took my hand. My eyes again found Henry's aloof figure.

He stood apart from them all, his eyes burrowing into mine, then raking over me, and I felt as though he was observing every tiny detail, from my torn hem to my smudged face. I blushed at his perusal, my disheveled appearance brought to the forefront of my thoughts.

"You are looking a little rumpled, my dear," Sarah whispered, with half a smile. "Come have a bath. They can all wait."

I blushed harder. Then, with a heavy pause, she continued, "he can wait."

And I let her lead me away without a word.

Later, bathed and dressed in one of my old frocks, I joined my family in the drawing room.

Henry stood up when he saw me, and made a bow.

"Miss Morland, I am relieved to see you arrived home safely."

I took refuge in the protocols of the occasion, and hid my face while I curtsied in return. "Thank you, Mr. Tilney. I would have thought you to have joined your family at Lord Longtown's residence."

A ripple passed over his countenance, disrupting the facade I had grown so used to. He assisted me onto the settee beside Sarah, then returned to his own chair not five feet away.

"No, indeed. I returned home Monday morning to find three very distressing messages. One from the owner of a posting inn, and the others from the general and Eleanor."

I looked at my parents, who had been silent since I came in. "Have you heard all this from Mr. Tilney yesterday?"

"Yes, dear," said Mamma, "and we were in great distress. I was in a state all afternoon until your message arrived yesterday. To think you were kidnapped en route to us, I did not know such things happened in England. I lay the blame entirely on General Tilney, and can only wish Mr. Tilney had not been away when it all occurred."

"None wishes that greater than I, Mrs. Morland."

She nodded, accepting his words as a blanket of consolation. "But you must tell us what happened to you, Catherine dear. We have only the account of the brigand who overset you, passed on to us from Mr. Tilney."

"What?" I turned sharply toward Mr. Tilney. "Has he been apprehended already? Pray tell me what came to pass."

His face darkened, and he drew breath to begin his tale. "The brigand, as you may know, is called John Fort, a wanted man in connection with the Stonehenge desecration of last year. He proved himself a wily sort, eluding the authorities for some time, but his errand of vengeance against our mutual friend Mr. Brearly was ill thought. He left a note at a posting inn, not five miles from Northanger, describing his location and that he held Eleanor Tilney herself in his custody, threatening violence should Mr. Brearly not turn up by a certain time. Mr. Fort could not write it for himself, however, and though he paid the scribe for his silence, it was not enough to overcome the man's scruples. Word was sent to me at Northanger. But, as you know, I was not there to receive it until he following day.

"When I arrived at the cabin described, it was deserted. I was gravely concerned for Eleanor's well-being. My mind was in such disarray it did not occur to me that if Eleanor had been kidnapped then I should have found the general still at home. And riding by stage, you should have been home Sunday evening."

I gave him a small nod. "Yes. But did you find Mr. Fort nearby?"

"I did. He was on a main road—but not the one I came in on. I was not likely to forget his face after our last meeting. After getting as much information from his as I could, I left him at the same posting inn to be dealt with by another party.

"His story that you'd escaped on his own horse was something I could believe of Eleanor under extreme circumstances. But it was when he produced your bonnet and cloak that I realized his mistake. And my own. I could find no trace of you after that. You had not gone back to Northanger, nor to any public houses in the area." He took a slow breath, then said, "It was with the heaviest of hearts that I rode here, bearing almost the worst news one can to the family of one I had hoped to meet under far different circumstances. There are still a dozen men out looking for you."

He looked at me expectantly.

"Northanger—I…I could not go back there. Your father had demanded my absence."

"I cannot accept that. He would not have turned you away."

"You were not there, Mr. Tilney. I was as forcibly removed as possible without being dragged from the premises. I suppose you have not yet seen the general?"

He shook his head.

"Why not ride to Woodston then and seek help from me directly?"

I blanched at the question. Now it seemed such an obvious solution. I felt ashamed that I'd considered the possibility of Henry's betrayal of confidence. Now I knew, finally, that he had not been at all involved in my expulsion from the abbey. The question had lingered, tormenting me for all the days of my trial—nearly forgotten at many times, but always hovering as a dark cloud over me.

I chose to tell a half-lie. "That notion did not occur to me."

His eyes squinted a fraction, enough to show some doubt at my words. "How frustratingly unfortunate."

"I could only think of getting home as invisibly as possible," I said. "Public houses are exactly what I wished to avoid—I didn't wish to bring attention to my circumstances. Not long after escaping Mr. Fort, I was most fortunate to find aid at a farm."

I related the rest of my tale, glossing over details as I could, wishing the interview over. My discomfort grew with every question, and at length I was released. It wasn't until I had stood and left the room that I realized the suffocation I felt was not due only my disinclination to be in the spotlight. The room swayed as I struggled to keep hold of the banister in front of me. I made it halfway up the stairs to my room before I felt the touch of someone grabbing me.

Had I fallen? The moments next were a blur, but when I felt myself let down upon something soft, I lost all awareness and knew only darkness.


	47. 21 April 1798

It was just before dawn when I woke.

Some sound—a familiar one—had awoken me, though now could not recall whence it came.

I went out to the small balcony that was beyond my bedroom window. As I gazed out on the darkness before me, I heard it again. It was the keening of a horse. And not just any, but my own.

I rushed back in, thrilled at her arrival. She could have arrived anytime in the past days, but though I trusted Eleanor to deliver her safely, I had no notion of when she might arrive.

Still weak from fever, I was not as quick as I'd hoped, but was able to pull on something unseen hanging in the wardrobe. I fumbled with the buttons on the side, my mind still slow from sleep.

The stairs were a nuisance, taking even more time as I stumbled over the hem of the garment I wore.

It was only the previous evening that I had fully awakened from my fevered state. Much of my strength had returned after the hot meal I consumed, and felt much more myself after getting in a good wash. Three days had passed, I was told, though it seemed far less.

After a brief stop in the kitchen, I went out the side door to the stables, thinking to find Medusa there.

I searched there for her, confusion growing. No one was awake yet to ask, and yet I had been certain—

"Looking for Medusa, are you?"

I turned around to see Henry's darkly clad figure standing before me.

Of all the dozens of things I could have uttered, I said foolishly, "How do you know?"

His brows rose. "Am I wrong? Or did you know I had returned and hope to meet me alone?"

"No—that is, I.." His eyes pierced into mine, and speech at that moment became impossible. I was lost in him.

A familiar smile passed his lips. "I do so adore teasing you."

My face heated and I grew more flustered. I looked down at my dress for a moment, attempting to collect myself, and then noticed for the first time the garment I wore was not just any dress. My under breath exclamation did not go unnoticed.

"What's that, Catherine?"

"My dress…is not at all suitable."

He looked down at the silver gown I wore—the most lavish bit of finery I owned—deemed by Mrs. Allen as too out of fashion for Bath. It had been ordered for Mariah's wedding so that I might be a bridesmaid. "You do shimmer a little more than I recall. Perfect for a stable."

"I thought you'd left."

He nodded in affirmation. "I had much to arrange. But I returned last evening. I would never have left if I'd known just how ill you were. And I brought Medusa back with me from Longtown's as penance."

My face lit. "I knew she was here! Show me."

He reached out slowly, offering his hand. I took it, and he led me out to the other side of the stable, where both his horse and mine were saddled and ready.

"What—how did you know I would—"

"I know you Catherine. I know you. Come for a ride."

I hesitated. "But my dress, I should change first."

"Don't," he said urgently in a quiet voice. "Come now."

We went swiftly in the dawn light. Every look, every laugh, brought feelings I'd thought buried closer to the surface. What was he doing here? I would not delude myself—he had never given me reason to think he cared for me more than a friend.

But I would know the truth.

"Henry!" I called out to him, yards behind.

He slowed and brought his horse alongside mine. Where they took us I knew not. I only had eyes for Henry.

"What are you doing here?"

His smile turned serious. "What are you asking?"

"I'm asking why you came back. Eleanor was to have sent Medusa with a courier. There is no obligation between us. Your father loathes my presence. I state only the facts—and your actions are not consistent."

His gaze grew searching. "Would you have them be consistent?"

My heart beat more rapidly. "No. I am glad you have come."

He looked away, into the distance. "My father is a fool. Can you believe he thought you were to inherit the Allen's estate?"

"Inherit? As, in he thought me an heiress? No I cannot believe it. I certainly never acted like one."

"No," he said with a smile, "you never did. He had deceived himself there. And I was able to easily refute every accusation he threw your way. It was Thorpe who mislead him, not you."

"John Thorpe? But—oh dear. And Isabella and James—I suppose the Thorpes believed he had more to expect than he really did. It all makes sense I suppose. The day the letter arrived with the terms of my brothers fortune, she was so disappointed in the details that lost some respect for her. Now I see." I put head in my hand. "How dreadful."

"Dreadful indeed—though I still say James made a lucky escape. And you as well. Mr. Thorpe tried to hook you as well, did he not?"

"He did. Quite relentlessly in fact—it was only with the greatest forcefulness that I was able to repel his advances."

Henry laughed. "I would have given a great deal to witness that."

I smiled back at him, then another thought occurred to me. "I suppose you and Eleanor were not deceived there?"

"We were not. She was quite in shock after I told her of my conversation with the general. The supposed forgotten engagement, his rude treatment of you, the disgrace in which he sent you home—was all rooted in his recent discovery of the truth. He believed you to have been a fortune hunter, deceiving him under his own roof, tricking me with your wiles."

I stared at him, incredulously. "My…wiles? Surely you jest."

"As I said, he is a fool, and a blind one at that, most especially since you were being courted the entire time by Sir Harry and he hadn't the slightest notion. My father refused to believe you had rejected his proposal. It took some convincing that his efforts to woo you on my behalf had failed, and I daresay, gone unnoticed."

My body tensed. "You mean—he wished us to…"

"Marry? You look shocked at the very notion. Though his efforts were very ham-handed, it was the sole reason for inviting you to Northanger."

"But, no—he asked me as a companion for Eleanor. So she would not be lonely."

He looked skeptical. "My father cares only for his own feelings, and his own gain. Eleanor and I were quite at a loss for his reasoning behind your invitation. It was most unexpected, but we were happy for it all the same."

I ran my fingers back and forth over the smooth leather of the reins. "I am sorry you were subjected to his matchmaking schemes."

He made no reply. I finally looked over at him. He gazed intently at me, his expression unreadable. Then I sensed some decision he had made, and I saw a look of determination. He brought his horse to a halt and dismounted. A light wind ruffled his hair.

Without any warning, he reached up, put his hands on my waist, and pulled me off Medusa into the narrow space between them. The heat from his bare hands seeped through the delicate fabric of my dress.

A tremor passed through me as he caressed my cheek with the pad of his index finger.

"With any other woman, I would have been sorry too. But he did more than I. All the while I thought you wished to marry Harry—that you loved him. I forced myself to stay at Northanger, watching what I thought was your love blooming, tolerating his presence there so I would not take away your chance at happiness. I have suffered the deepest agony but hid it from you always, thinking you loved another.

"That day in the music hall, when you lured me into that alcove, you were so concerned about Isabella and our brothers. I had nearly—" he broke off, let out a small laugh, then said, "I could barely keep my countenance during that entire meeting—so intensely did I wish to—I could think of nothing else but this."

Before I knew what he was about, his hand slid behind my head and his lips came against my own. His arm tightened about my waist, drawing me closer to him.

I knew a moment of tension, then my body relaxed, responding to the softness of his kiss. My palms and fingers spread against his chest as I sunk into his embrace.

All thought dropped from my mind, and for a time the only thing I felt was a depth of passion I never knew him to possess. Here was the man who risked his life for his sister's honor, whose eyes could pierce mine like thunder in the darkness—a man who could move heaven and earth with only a blink. Here was the man I loved.

After a time, he pulled himself away and spoke to me quietly. "I have been so foolish, Catherine, so wrong. I should have let you know every day how I felt. Tell me I am not too late, that I still have a chance with your heart."

"Oh Henry," I said, touching his face. "Such a handsome buffoon you are. My heart is already yours."

He let out a shaky breath. "Marry me, my dearest one. I love you."

"But what of your father?"

"He cannot dictate whom I marry. And I choose you."

I smiled. "And I you."

—

Six months later, we wed. Though Henry could marry without his father's consent, my own good parents did not wish me to proceed without it.

It was the influence of Thomas Brearly himself, who convinced the General of my merits. Thomas had finally been granted Eleanor's hand in marriage after his unexpected accession to title and fortune. A great uncle, long forgotten on the continent, left all to his closest living descendant.

Now connected to a prestigious Viscount, the General deigned to give his consent for Henry's marriage to me. Learning I had refused a marriage offer to a Baron had done some good in restoring me to his good graces. But I suspect it was the discovery of my dowry of three thousand pounds that secured his final approval.

We wed immediately.

"Now to the carriage," he said afterward, as he unleashed a herd of musk oxen.


End file.
